


Stars ’Cross

by Popcornjones



Series: RACE TO YOUR HEART [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst, Angst and Feels, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Breakup, Christmas Smut, Eventual Smut, Evolving Relationship, Falling In Love, Gay Sex, Greg is Sweet, Homophobia, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pining, Sex, Sports, Teenlock, anon hookups, belgium - Freeform, bicycle racing, cyclocross - Freeform, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 137,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23176234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is the new star cyclocross racer. Greg Lestrade is World Champion, one of the best 'cross racers of all time. Can such fierce competitors become friends?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: RACE TO YOUR HEART [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900072
Comments: 199
Kudos: 120
Collections: MYSTRADE





	1. HEUSDEN-ZOLDER

**Author's Note:**

> Cyclocross is a fantastic sport! It’s a form of bike racing that is a sort of hybrid of road racing and mountain bike racing — it was invented in Belgium by pro road cyclists who while training in the winter began riding across fields because the extra effort kept them warmer. Belgian fields have ditches and fences, so the riders got off their bikes and carried them over those barriers.
> 
> Now, Cyclocross is raced between September and February on a closed course generally custom built in a park or greenspace (but sometimes incorporating bridges and other city infrastructure). The courses often have sand pits the riders must ride — or run — through, wooden plank barriers they can either jump their bike over or dismount and carry the bike over, stairs, steep hills, off camber sections where the course cuts across a steep hill, forcing the racers to ride or run balanced on the side of a slope. All of this is done at top speed without stopping — a racer will swing a leg over a moving bike and step off into a run, losing no momentum, picking up or pushing the bike until s/he can leap back upon it and ride. The racers are so good at these skills, they make them look ridiculously easy. Trust me, they are NOT. I raced cyclocross at an amateur level and it’s super hard and super fun.
> 
> It is raced in all weather — hot or cold, rain or shine, snow and/or ice. When it rains, the course is muddy. When it’s cold, the course is icy.
> 
> The Elite Men’s Cyclocross race — which this story involves — lasts for one hour. 
> 
> Some of the stars of cyclocross go on to race on the road — a young cross racer was in the Tour de France in 2019 and did very well, even winning a stage (which is HUGE) as well as assisting teammates to win other stages. Another won several one-day races against the top riders in the sport. 'Cross is hard core.
> 
> Best of all, cyclocross is fun to watch! There’s always something happening! Check it out: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_IbDU0JIybRWBUFnUPtreux6-XsnIT2d

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft races against Lestrade for the first time.

For that first race together, it was two degrees* and spitting rain. The course was muddy — up to the axle in some places, halfway to the knee if you were obliged to dismount and run. The physics of the course would be challenging, they would have changed since Mycroft had ridden the course earlier — and they were always different at race pace. He’d have to assess it anew on the first lap whilst in the crush of the peloton.

Unless he could get the hole shot — being out front from the start would be ideal.

“Why’s _he_ in the front row?” Sherlock snarled as he took Mycroft’s coat. “It’s his first race this year.” His voice sounded strange to Mycroft, it had dropped in the last few weeks from the piping alto he’d always had to an uncertain baritone, lower than Mycroft’s own pleasant tenor. “They made you start in the _back_ for your first race.”

“You know very well he has enough UCI points from last season to put him up front.”** Mycroft snapped, shivering. He wore a wool base layer and leg warmers, but the thin spandex of his skinsuit did almost nothing to keep out the cold. The minutes between his warm up and the start of the race were defined by the unpleasant drop in his body temperature. It didn't help that he was quickly becoming soaked. “Take these too.” He said, handing his brother his sunglasses. They would be covered in mud within half a lap.

“You had points.”

“I don’t need to tell you that U23 points don’t transfer to the elites.” Mycroft, at not yet 21, could still be racing in the under twenty-three field. But he’d dominated that field last year and come away with the U23 World Championship jersey*** — he’d accomplished everything he could there. He’d been ready to race with the elite men this year.

After five races in this series, Mycroft had won three and finished second and fourth, and as a result he wore the white jersey for leading the men’s elite World Cup series. Moving up had been the right decision.

“He’s _signing autographs_!” Sherlock said, outraged.

“Is he?” Mycroft darted a glance at the Elite World Champion — he was also in white today, though his skinsuit had black bottoms, bore the rainbow rings of a World Champion around his chest and the name of a leading pro tour team — AMSTEL — on his shoulders. The big Belgian was grinning as a child held out a smartphone to take a selfie of himself with Greg Lestrade, cyclocross phenom.

Lestrade _was_ a phenomenal racer, Mycroft could not deny it — he’d watched Lestrade race for years, studied his strengths and weaknesses minutely. He was ridiculously talented, his endurance and power legendary — the only ‘cross racer whose skill approached Mycroft’s own. He could hardly begrudge the child — especially as Lestrade’s handsome face was plastered all over everything: ads for bike helmets, tyres, energy gels, sunglasses, ski visors and Peugeot SUVs. His face smiled from enormous banners around the race course and in every cycling magazine and website in existence. Lestrade was legitimately famous.

Mycroft had been working towards this moment since he first saw Lestrade on a bike seven years ago — on television winning the U23 World Championship at the age of nineteen. He had captivated Mycroft with his power and skill. The bike seemed to be an extension of Lestrade’s body — he did not appear to have weaknesses! Lestrade had gone on to win the Elite World Championship jersey at twenty-one — the youngest men’s elite winner ever. And he’d won it every year but one since.

Following in Lestrade’s footsteps had not been easy, but for Mycroft, failure was not an option. And now! Now he was here, on the starting line with Lestrade! He was ready to test his legs against the best.

Sherlock and the other helpers were ushered off the course and a cameraman began pointing his lenses at the front row, focussing on each rider in turn. Racers were lined up according to their results, the better one raced, the farther forward one was placed. Thus, the front row had all the ‘stars,’ all the racers who could theoretically win this race. They would all be featured on Dutch, Belgian and French television — and online for fans farther afield — and cameras would follow them throughout the race.****

Every man on the front line _could_ win this race, they were all hard men, highly capable elite athletes. But as far as Mycroft was concerned, there were only three men that really mattered: Thijs Vanthourenhout, the current Dutch National Champion, European Champion and former Elite World Champion who was currently second to Mycroft in this race series, the great Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft himself — current British National Champion and U23 World Champion.

As the camera focussed on him, Mycroft suppressed his shivers and put on his game face — the one that had earned him the sobriquet ‘The Iceman.’ The commentators said his expression never changed — they couldn’t tell if he were suffering or feeling great. They enjoyed speculating if ‘The Iceman’ might ‘melt down’ or if he’d ‘skate to another victory.’ Or if he had any emotions at all. Tiresome. 

He kept an eye on the camera as it passed down the line. Vanthourenhout typically ignored the camera, as did his four teammates in their Dutch orange jerseys, Marcel Maier, the German Champion, looked ill at ease, but Mycroft saw that Lestrade looked straight into the lenses and gave it his signature grin. Mycroft rolled his eyes — despite his admiration for the man’s abilities, Lestrade seemed like the sort of vain person who always knew where the camera was and how to show his best angles.

He remembered the first — and thus far only — time they’d spoken: last year at the World Championships. Mycroft had ridden away from the U23 field on the hilly course and won by over a minute. Lestrade had approached him after the podium ceremony. “Good job, Slim.” He’d said in lightly accented English. Mycroft had thanked him, wondering what it was the man wanted. “You made it look easy. Hope I’ll get a chance to race you next season.”

“I expect you shall.” Mycroft said. Then belatedly, “I hope you have good legs tomorrow.”

“Thanks mate.” Lestrade had grinned, winked at Mycroft and walked away.

The exchange had left a dangerous heat low in Mycroft’s belly. He had not been surprised to find Lestrade popping up in his treacherous dreams afterwards. He’d avoided the man since.

The course marshal pulled the cameraman out of the way. Mycroft tensed as the line of lights turned red, one-by-one. Then they all turned green at once and he — and 83 other men — pushed off the starting line into a full-on sprint. They had 200 metres of tarmac before a sharp left turn onto a long flight of stairs...

He was fifth into the corner, swinging his leg over his bike, stepping off into a run, hoisting the bicycle onto his shoulder, losing as little forward momentum as possible as he pelted up the stairs, other men carrying their bikes all around him. Mycroft had fast feet and arrived at the top fourth. He leapt back onto his bike whilst still running, and plunged down the soggy hill and around into the off camber. This was a hillside, steep and slick with mud, that they had to race across — not up nor down, but across, balancing on the precipitous slope. It could be ridden, but in the crush of the first lap, Mycroft again leapt off his bike and ran, pushing his bike this time, instead of shouldering it. 

The racer in front of Mycroft — one of Vanthourenhout’s orange-suited men, slipped, falling in the muck and sliding down into the fluorescent plastic net that lined the course. Mycroft barely avoided following him. Then he was back on his bike in the power sector. He built up speed, passing the racer in front of him. _I am killing your spirit!_ He told himself, imagining the despair of the other rider as he left him behind. _I crush your dreams!_

Then, out of nowhere, a white blur raced past Mycroft — he stood up on his pedals, sprinting hard to catch onto the racer’s wheel. He saw the rainbow rings around the other man’s torso and realised it was Lestrade! Lestrade passing him like a Ferrari passing a perambulator. 

Lestrade flew past the front rider and swung round towards a muddy field. Mycroft overtook the former leader two seconds later as he arced into the field. Lestrade had dismounted and was running through the centre taking the shortest line. Mycroft stayed mounted on his bike keeping to the rideable bit of grass at the edge, but even there it was wet and rutted. 

Lestrade rode into the pit for a bike change***** — with the amount of mud today, they’d be changing bikes at least once a lap — Mycroft followed, performed a perfect running dismount, letting go his bike as he passed his mechanic, grabbing the one Father held out — still sprinting after Lestrade — and leaping onto the clean bike. He clipped in and raced after Lestrade’s wheel three metres ahead.

They rode into the corners, a series of 180 degree turns that could only be ridden so fast — especially in the mud. Then the course opened out into the sand pit. Lestrade — still a full two bike lengths ahead — powered into the damp sand, spinning his pedals furiously, leaning this way and that to maintain his balance. He made it an impressive way before he was forced to jump off and run. By then, Mycroft was already off, bike on his shoulder, sprinting hard — sometimes it was faster to run than to ride (as Lestrade had demonstrated in the field) and Mycroft had always been a good runner. He left the sand pit neck-and-neck with Lestrade.

Lestrade grinned at him like a big, friendly dog. 

Confused, Mycroft risked a quick look over his shoulder — Vanthourenhout was leading a small chase group, but they were at least ten seconds behind.

“Let’s trade pulls, Slim.” Lestrade called as they raced side-by-side around the lake. “Put some distance between us and them.”

It was a sound tactic, working together — if they could get away from the other racers definitively, Mycroft could attack Lestrade in the later laps when he began to tire. And if he couldn’t ride away from the Belgian, the worst he’d get was second place. Mycroft nodded and pulled through, taking the lead into the hurdles — planks set across the course on their small edge, making a twelve-inch barrier across the course. They both bunny-hopped over the two hurdles, jumping their bikes over first one board and then the second, then rode around into the rhythm section. Mycroft stood up on his pedals, knees bent, head over the stem, hands in the drops, shoving the bars down hard to coast through the ‘whoops’ — a series of little hill-bumps with deep dips between them. Lestrade pulled around him as they finished — his greater weight gave him an advantage there — and led through a veritable marsh of deep (up to his axle!) slick mud, back onto the tarmac to complete the first lap.

As they crossed the start/finish line, Mycroft glanced back to see the Vanthourenhout group just coming onto the pavement — he was down to one orange clad teammate who was leading the chase, trying to bring Vanthourenhout to them. No one else would help the powerful Dutchman, he was too good. They would rather sit behind him for the rest of the race than to help him win — if he couldn’t bridge up to Mycroft and Lestrade, the other racers would still have a fighting chance for third place against a spent Vanthourenhout. 

Their lead was growing. Mycroft took over the front before the corner and ran the stairs two at a time. 

They worked well together, he and Lestrade, through the second lap, and the third. Mycroft analysed the other man’s riding — his power was impressive, but he had to rely on it more where his skills were not quite as finely honed as Mycroft’s. By the time they started the fourth lap, Mycroft knew that he had to ride into the off-camber first and attack out of it hard. Lestrade consistently slipped and lost time traversing that hillside. Lestrade was faster running it than trying to ride it, but Mycroft knew he _could_ ride the heavy mud if he got into just the right rut. He could ride it faster than Lestrade could run it, gun it on the other side whilst Lestrade was remounting and finding his pedals, and gain an advantage. It would have been better for Mycroft if the off-camber was closer to the finish, as it was Lestrade would have opportunities to catch him before the end of the race.

On the sixth lap, the rain began to fall in earnest. Mycroft pretended to tire, to struggle to hold on as the freezing rain pounded his helmet and shoulders. He playacted grim determination to keep up with Lestrade as he purposefully took sloppy lines, dabbing a foot on the ground in a corner, fishtailing in the deep mud... he thought Lestrade was relaxing, confident he could outlast Mycroft.

In the seventh lap, Lestrade attacked in the sand, powering through it masterfully. Mycroft abandoned his ruse and chased hard, but he trailed the rest of the lap — nothing he did seemed to be enough. He could feel his energy actually begin to fade — he was nine seconds behind as they crossed the line!

His hands were numb, his gloves sodden. Mycroft could barely feel them as he shifted into another gear. 

Mycroft focussed, pulling his mental toughness around himself tightly. He concentrated upon riding the course cleanly — racing the course not the other riders — sprinting up the stairs and down the straights. He rode the off-camber perfectly, halving the seconds between them and used the momentum to catch up and pass Lestrade in the muddy field, right before the bike pit where they both changed to clean bikes. Mycroft led into the sand this time. Lestrade surged again in the power section, but Mycroft held him in check. They jumped the hurdles on their bikes side-by-side. Mycroft was sloppy on the jumps, his efforts in the race taking their toll, but Lestrade was grimacing, his pain-face on full display as they rounded the corner.

Lestrade outdistanced Mycroft again in the rhythm section. He fishtailed in the deep, swampy mud that led to the pavement, spraying it on the spectators, but it wasn’t enough for Mycroft to catch up. He sprinted on the tarmac, catching and passing Lestrade at the start/finish. He heard the bell, signalling that this was the final lap. This was it! 

Mycroft forced himself to sprint the stairs, though by then they were becoming icy with sleet. It felt like he was stripping the lining from inside his lungs and ripping his quadriceps from the bone. He leapt onto his bike simultaneously with Lestrade. Mycroft held his ground down the descent, but the bigger, heavier racer easily blocked, leaning into Mycroft’s space and taking it. 

Somehow, Mycroft _had_ to get to the off-camber first!

On the final corner before the off-camber, he took a chance, taking the inside line through mud slick as ice, ducking under Lestrade’s arm coming out of the corner in front of him. He heard the man’s grunt of surprise.

Mycroft sprinted onto the off-camber, finding the line — the single, perfect mathematical line that could be ridden across the rain-slicked hillside. 

He heard a mucky slosh and a curse — Lestrade had slipped! Mycroft sprinted the power section, trying to increase his lead. The series of 180s allowed him to see his advantage, Lestrade a full turn behind him, still riding west into the rain whilst Mycroft rode east with the rain at his back. 

He took a chance and didn’t swap his bike for a clean one. He had to hope he didn’t get so much mud in the pedals to keep him from clipping in, or in his drive train to stop him shifting.

In the sand pit, Mycroft gave everything. He ran through the deep, treacherously shifting sand at full tilt — but he lost some of his advantage over Lestrade. He rode as fast as he dared in the power sector, pushing out the long, low banners advertising beer and cellular services that lined the course with his hip and shoulder as his speed took him wide through the corners. He still had a couple bike lengths as he bunny-hopped over the planks — he could do this! Mycroft could win!! Against _Lestrade_!

He floated through the rhythm section perfectly not losing any speed... but bloody Lestrade caught his wheel! And surged ahead!

Mycroft sprinted into the pond of mud right on Lestrade’s wheel, neither of them slowing as they arced into its deep, sticky centre, mud spewing up from their tyres. They were too fast! Mycroft knew it! Knew they’d go down before Lestrade slid out sideways, taking Mycroft’s front wheel with him. Mycroft flipped over his bars, landing splat! on his arse in the mud. 

He squirmed to his feet, slopping gracelessly in the foot of mud, and grabbed his bike up, hoisting it onto his shoulder. He sprinted — if wading through sucking mud halfway to one’s knee could be said to be sprinting — to the tarmac, set his bike on the ground for two fast steps and leapt upon it. His cleats and pedals were full of mud, and he couldn’t clip in, but he pushed on, riding the muddy bike best he could — afraid if he stood up, a foot would slip from a mud slicked pedal, afraid if he didn’t, Lestrade would surge past. 

Freezing rain beat down on the pavement, on Mycroft like needles. He peeked under his arm and _oh fuck Lestrade was right there_! Gasping, he pedalled harder, spinning out his gear (couldn’t risk shifting and dropping his mud-choked chain). There was a roaring in his ears, Lestrade at his elbow, pain searing his gasping lungs, his legs burning with lactic acid, legs giving out... but he did it! He did it! He crossed the line half a wheel in front of Lestrade!

Mycroft shouted in victory, holding his arms aloft. 

His white skinsuit was black with mud, his foot slipped from the pedal and he swerved. Mycroft grabbed the bars and braked, weaving to a stop. Black dots swam in his vision and someone grabbed his bike. Mycroft fell off onto the wet ground, gasping for oxygen, retching and shuddering. Someone grabbed him and threw a coat over his back. There was a towel wiping his face and he flopped onto his side, panting. 

Finally, Mycroft caught his breath, only to start coughing. He was helped to his feet. His cycling cleats wanted to slip from under him, but a sturdy arm wrapped around his waist. Father! Father had him! Abruptly Mycroft was freezing. His teeth chattered — he was wet through and it was sleeting. Father half carried him to a tent with — thank God! — heaters inside. He sat Mycroft on a chair next to one of the heaters and he leaned towards it bonelessly. He unclasped his helmet with clumsy fingers. 

“You have mud on your teeth.” 

Sherlock. Mycroft handed his brother the helmet. Silently, the skinny boy tugged open the Velcro at Mycroft’s wrists and rolled the sodden gloves from his shaking hands. 

“Are you hypothermic?” Sherlock asked with interest. “They were afraid I would be in my race, but I was fine.”

“Help him with his shoes.” Father commanded, pushing a plastic tub of warm water between Mycroft’s feet. Mycroft plunged his hands in and shuddered as the warmth began to penetrate his numb fingers. Another coughing fit overtook him. Uncle Rudy — Mycroft’s coach — took Father’s place and elbowed Sherlock aside. He began efficiently wiping the mud from Mycroft’s face with a warm, damp flannel. Father wrapped a big towel around Mycroft’s shoulders and he was pulled to his feet and led into an adjacent tent for the post-race interviews. His teeth were still chattering as the cameraman began to record. He noticed his UCI chaperone for the first time, lurking in the shadows.******

“Good show out there today, Mycroft! Did you expect to beat the World Champion in your first race together?” The journalist asked in Flemish, sticking a microphone in Mycroft’s face.

“My expectations were centred upon riding the best race that I could.” Mycroft replied in fluent Flemish. "Happily, today that was enough to win.”

“It’s awfully cold and wet out there — muddy. Did the conditions suit your style of riding?”

“No. I have no problem with the mud, but the cold rain was unpleasant — however it was the same for everyone.” Mycroft shivered, the cold still in his core. “Everyone suffered.”

“It looked like you and Lestrade were working together for a while there — was that the case?”

“Vanthourenhout is a gifted racer — and he has a strong team. It seemed wise to work with Lestrade to drop him.”

“What does it mean to you, to beat Greg Lestrade?”

“It means my training is progressing as it should — and that luck favoured me today.”

“But surely it must feet good?”

Mycroft allowed a small smile to show. “Yes, of course, it feels great.”

With a final ‘congratulations,’ Mycroft was passed to a second journalist who asked almost the same questions in French, and then a third in English. Lestrade, he noted — who was interviewed after Mycroft — was also fluent (and charming) in all three languages. Thijs was most comfortable in Flemish (Dutch, really, which is as similar to Flemish as British English is to American English) and his English was passable. He was not interviewed in French.

Finally, Mycroft was allowed to return to the heated changing tent. Uncle Rudy began methodically stripping the sodden, mud-covered kit off Mycroft and wrapping him in dry towels. As his skinsuit was pulled to his ankles, Mycroft was just warm enough to begin to feel self-conscious about being denuded of his clothing in the crowded tent. He glanced around — Lestrade was bare to the waist, his filthy World Champion skinsuit unzipped and dangling around his arse, the majestic rainbow rings all but invisible in the mud. He had a towel wrapped around his shoulders as he drank from a bottle. Two thirds of his face was coated in mud — from the fall right before the finishing straight, Mycroft realised. There were finger marks over his eyes where he’d had to wipe the mud away in order to see.

 _That’s how I won_ , Mycroft understood. Lestrade had had to take a second to wipe the mud from his eyes and that second had given Mycroft the advantage he’d needed to cross the line first.

Lestrade caught him staring and grinned. “Good race, Slim!” He said genially. “Well fought. Congratulations.”

“Erm... you, uh, too.” Mycroft hadn’t expected the champion to be so laissez faire about losing. He was suddenly very aware of Lestrade’s magnificent thighs, white skin above the tan line, brown below, and his pale, taught abdomen, a black treasure trail disappearing into the muddy spandex — and very conscious of his own skeletal nudity beneath the towels.

“I’ll get you tomorrow.” Lestrade chuckled.

“Doubtful.” Sherlock interjected. “Unlike today, you’re starting at the back tomorrow. You’ll never even see my brother.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped, embarrassed. “That’s not polite.”

“But it’s true!”

Lestrade laughed, shocking both brothers into silence. “I’ll tell you what — Sherlock, is it? You look like a racer.”

“I am.” The boy preened.

“I’ll bet you a new pair of Grifo mud tyres that I’ll catch up to your brother by the end of the second lap.”

Sherlock squinted, studying the big Belgian closely for the first time. “End of the second? You’re on.”

“Sherlock...” Mycroft reproved.

“There’s two off-cambers and three hills tomorrow. With the wattage he put down today he won’t catch you until at least the third lap. Probably the fourth.”

Lestrade threw his head back and laughed out loud. “I thought Mycroft was supposed to be the scientist of cyclocross. Are you challenging his title?”

Sherlock, uncertain if he were being laughed at, scowled. “Mycroft’s the smart one.” He muttered.

A big paw, still smeared with drying mud, landed on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You seem plenty smart to me. What are you? Sixteen?”

“Fourteen.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “See, you have a few years to catch up. Are you racing tomorrow too?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be watching.” 

Sherlock attempted to shutter the bright look of joy Lestrade’s pronouncement brought to his angular face, but Mycroft noted that Lestrade caught it.

Mycroft had slipped on fleece lined warm up trousers and thick wool socks during this exchange and was feeling altogether better — the euphoria of his win began to overtake the chill in his bones.

_He had beaten the great Gregory Lestrade!_

_HE HAD WON!!!_

If he were honest with himself, Mycroft had _not_ expected to win — not that he’d ever admit it to the press or, Lord forbid, to Uncle Rudy, Father or Mummy. He had _wanted_ to win very badly, and he knew that he _could_ beat the legendary Belgian.

But Lestrade’s reputation was not hype — he really was the best of the best. Starting on equal terms, both of them in the front row on a relatively flat course, Gregory Lestrade had the advantage.

And really, like so much in bike racing, it had come down to luck. If they hadn’t fallen in the mud, Lestrade would have beat him. If Mycroft had fallen sideways as Lestrade had, tangling in his bike, unable to unclip one of his feet quickly, having to clear mud from his eyes, Lestrade would have won. He had almost won regardless.

Mycroft _hated_ luck. It was the one variable for which he could never account, over which he could not assert some measure of control.

“You feeling better?” A solid, warm arm wrapped around Mycroft’s shoulders. “You looked pretty bad there for a minute, Slim.”

“I’m... erm... fine.”

Lestrade scoffed. “I burn hot and I was freezing my tits off. Someone like you... nothing extra to keep the heat in... sometimes I envy thin blokes like you.” He laughed. “Usually going uphill. But I wouldn’t want to trade on a day like this.”

Mycroft realised he was leaning into Lestrade, almost cuddling up against him. He pulled back, blushing. “Sorry. Still chilled... I suppose.”

The big, warm hand squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder affectionately before letting go. “No worries.” His eyes sparkled. “Earning your nickname, Iceman.”

For just a second, they weren’t in a tent swarming with race officials, coaches, friends and helpers... for a second, they were alone and Mycroft smiled into those warm, engaging brown eyes. Heat pooled in his belly.

And then they were back in the busy tent and Sherlock was looking at him funny and Uncle Rudy was giving him a long-sleeved British National Champion’s jersey to layer over the long-sleeved shirt he wore already and someone was handing Lestrade a damp flannel to clean the mud from his face. 

The rest of it — forcing himself to drink the recovery shake, the podium ceremonies, doping control — was a bit of a blur. Mycroft felt oddly _aware_ of Lestrade the entire time. He’d heard that despite winning just about every race he entered, everyone sincerely liked the man. Loved him, even. Mycroft was beginning to believe it — _he_ was beginning to like the man in spite of himself.

On the podium, Mycroft was handed a big bouquet of flowers, a covered basket of local cheeses, and was once again awarded the white leader’s jersey for having the most points in the series. (Why anyone thought _white_ was appropriate for cyclocross was beyond Mycroft. Anthea had used _gallons_ of bleach trying to keep his white skinsuits white.)

As they left the stage, Mycroft hoped perhaps he’d have another chance to speak with Lestrade. But as soon as he was down the stairs, a blonde woman in a bright yellow mac and red umbrella waylaid the superstar.

“Greg!”

“There you are.” He said, scooping her into his embrace and kissing her. “Wasn’t sure you came, Sweetheart.” He pressed his bouquet of flowers into her hands.

Mycroft walked by, trying not to look, confused as to why he cared at all. Instead he engaged with Thijs Vanthourenhout — third place and a thoroughly decent chap — until Mummy bustled over and confiscated the basket of cheese. "Those two make a lovely couple." 

He didn't have to look to know of whom she spoke. "Good race today, Thijs. See you tomorrow." Mycroft said to Vanthourenhout. He presented his bouquet to Mummy as they walked to the bus. She smiled her thanks, clearly pleased with the flowers.

Mycroft reflected whilst they drove to Kortrik, about the singular Lestrade. About his friendliness after the race and the strange feelings it had inspired — not arousal, never that, but a queasy, happy heat. 

Conclusions were elusive.

It was evening before they arrived in Kortrik. Father checked them all into the hotel and Mycroft took a long, hot shower, chasing the last of the chill from his bones. He met up with his family in the lobby restaurant to eat with the other members of the Holmes entourage — Uncle Rudy, the two mechanics, Alun and Anderson, and Anthea, Mycroft’s soigneur.******* 

Mummy disappeared into the kitchen to talk to the chef directly about Mycroft’s diet, arranging for an appetising dish that conformed to his nutritional plan. Without her intervention, Mycroft tended to eat the same things, rapidly growing bored and resentful of the restrictions. He had to balance fueling himself appropriately for competition and training with maintaining his optimum — very low — race weight. It was a balance with which any number of riders struggled. 

Many of the other teams and racers were staying in the same hotel, and Mycroft made a point to stop and speak civilly with each of the racers he knew, accepting their congratulations and listening to them rehash their race. He lingered with Marcel Maier, conversing in German. Maier didn’t speak Flemish, thus he tended to stick with the very small German contingent — he was the only German anywhere near the front of the elite races. Though his English was perfect and his French passable, he was delighted that Mycroft spoke his mother tongue. He never wasted an opportunity to speak with Mycroft. 

Mycroft did not mind — Marcel knew all the gossip and relished relating it in a language the subjects did not understand. Word was, he told Mycroft, that Tom Wurst was leaving Vanthourenhout’s team at the New Year to be the star of a new team. “I hope they don’t mind if their ‘star’ never sets foot on the podium — does he think he can beat Greg Lestrade? There is a reason he works for Vanthourenhout.” Marcel laughed.

“You’re such a phoney.” Sherlock complained when they’d returned to their room. “You don’t _like_ any of them.”

“I don’t _dis_ like them.” Mycroft countered. (Marcel was amusing. And attractive.) “And having good relations is just good strategy.”

“It’s just so _boring_.” Sherlock was lying on one of the beds with his feet on the wall, elevating his legs. Mycroft should be doing the same — if Mummy caught him on his feet she would be disappointed. Good recovery was key, especially with back-to back races. ********

“I have a massage in half an hour.” Mycroft murmured leaving Sherlock in the room. Instead of going directly to Anthea, Mycroft visited the mechanics in their little suite. He hadn’t wanted to say in front of Father, but his third bike hadn’t been shifting optimally. He looked at it with Alun. All five of his bikes were pristinely clean as if they’d never seen a drop of mud.

He touched the carbon top tube of his favourite bike. It wasn’t rational, Mycroft knew, to favour one machine over identical machines, to anthropomorphise the bicycle, fancying it favoured him as well. But he could never seem to shake it. “Thank you for taking such good care of them.” He told Alun.

His soignuer, Anthea, had set up in Uncle Rudy’s suite, near the mechanics. She’d put her massage table in the living area, pushing the couch aside. Mycroft stripped off in the loo, grateful as he heard Uncle Rudy leaving the suite with Mummy and Father. He settled on the table with a hand towel for modesty. She began with his feet, massaging up his legs, pushing lactic acid towards his heart where it would be broken down. She had strong fingers and she knew Mycroft’s body better than he knew it himself. She worked his thighs, kneading and stretching, using the long, light strokes that would help his muscles heal more quickly. She released his ITBs and asked how his knees and hips felt. Then she flipped him over and worked the kinks out of his back and neck until he was drowsing contentedly on the table. She gave him his final protein drink of the day and he left ready to drop into bed. 

“Hey there, Slim.” Lestrade! “You on this floor?”

“Erm... no — my, uh, soignuer is.”

“Just had a massage?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I can smell the oil.”

“Oh... erm...”

“Always liked that smell.” Lestrade stood very close, so close Mycroft could imagine tipping forward into his arms. “Doing anything now?”

“Sleeping.” Mycroft said. “Recovery.”

“It’s early yet. Wanna get a pint in the bar?”

“Oh. I don’t drink.” Mycroft grimaced thinking what Mummy would say if she caught him in the hotel bar. “Recovery.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t either. I tell myself beer is full of good carbohydrates.”

“Well, it certainly _has_ carbohydrate.” Mycroft said archly.

“You gonna tell me how the alcohol interacts with my body to inhibit recovery?”

Mycroft smirked. “Chemistry is more my brother’s remit.”

“Sherlock, right? He’s a character. Not too many fourteen-year-olds racing the juniors at this level... he must be good.”

“He is. He’ll be brilliant if he sticks with it.”

“Looking forward to seeing him race.” Lestrade tossed his head towards the lifts. “You better get your recovery sleep. I don’t want it to be too easy tomorrow.”

“Allow me to put your mind at ease, Lestrade.”

“Greg. You should call me Greg.”

Mycroft smiled, shark-like and dangerous. “I’ll attempt to remember whilst I leave you eating dust.”

Lestrade’s laugh rang out, loud and beautiful. “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Celsius. To convert (roughly) to Fahrenheit, double the number and add 30. i.e. ten degrees celsius is roughly 50 degrees Fahrenheit.
> 
> **cyclocross racers are seeded, either on points from the international cycling body the UCI, or points from wins and placings from previous races in the same series. This first race is in the Telenet World Cup series, a series of ten races between September and February. The top 15 finishers in each race are awarded points and these points are added up. The racer with the most points leads the overall World Cup series and wears a special jersey signifying that he or she is the race leader. The other series in this story, the DVV Troffee series is races on time — ie however long it takes one to finish each race is added to the time it took from all previous races. The racer who finishes all races in the series in the least amount of time is the winner of the series.
> 
> As each race starts, the top racers — with the most points or least time — are staged in the front rows, the rows behind lined up in descending order. In the World Cup series, points from the same calendar year count towards staging — so points earned in January and February would count in September through December. In the DVV series, time is the only factor. For every missed race, a rider is awarded five minutes and thus would be lined up behind racers with less time.
> 
> Other major series in that region include the Superprestige series and the Ethias Cyclocross series.
> 
> ***Mycroft won the Men's U23 World Championship jersey which means he's entitled to wear the World Champion's jersey in Men's U23 races. As he's now racing in the Elites, he cannot wear it. Lestrade is the Men's Elite World Champion.
> 
> ****Cyclocross — bike racing in general — is HUGE in Belgium and the Netherlands. More than half the racers, and most of the stars, are Belgian and Dutch. It's watched on TV there like football or Baseball or any big sports event and the big stars are celebrities.
> 
> *****The bike pit is a long straightaway parallel to the course, with an entrance and an exit. Racers are allowed to swap bikes during the race as many times as they care to — or not, they can ride the parallel path and keep the bike they’re on. In a muddy race like the one described, they might change their bikes every lap. If a rider rides into the pit, he or she MUST take a new bike. Pro riders will have as many as five bikes ready to race and their pit crew will clean the bike dropped off so it is ready to swap on the next lap. A rider may opt to change bikes for a different sort of tyre tread or different psi — he or she will signal their needs to the crew before they ride in. Very occasionally, a rider breaks or loses a shoe and the pit crew will have an extra pair on hand. In that case, the racer must change the bike as well as the shoe. 
> 
> ******After races, the top three cyclists and other randomly chosen racers are tested for performance enhancing drugs. While the top three go through the interview and podium rigamarole, each has an assigned chaperone who stays with them through to the drugs testing to ensure that there’s no ‘monkey business’ between when the race ends and testing.
> 
> This article gives a fascinating and comprehensive account of the process. https://www.businessinsider.com/how-cyclists-are-drug-tested-2015-9#-17
> 
> *******A soigneur is a non-riding member of a cycling team that cares for the needs of the riders, including preparing food for riding and recovery and massaging the rider's legs. https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/soigneur
> 
> ********When not training or racing, most bike racers will be lying down. Elevating the legs above the heart aids in the breakup of lactic acid, as does massage. And bike racing is SUPER HARD. Naps are good recovery.


	2. KORTRIJK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their second race together.

The next day dawned cold, but clear in Kortrijk.

Mycroft rousted Sherlock out of bed and went down to breakfast. His diet was proscribed by sports nutritionists and supported by Mummy — what he ate and when was very important, as was keeping his weight down. Breakfast was Mycroft’s favourite meal — it was the most relaxed and he was generally quite hungry for the thick, sweet rice porridge and blueberries. 

Mummy and Father were in good spirits, but Mycroft felt oddly flat. He’d left it all on the race course yesterday, perhaps he couldn’t expect to do quite so well today. 

He rejected that thought immediately — he hated to disappoint Mummy and she would read it on his face — and got himself another bowl of porridge.

As was their habit, the Holmeses went to the course early — Sherlock’s race was second of the day at 10 am. The amateur races had been held the day before, today started with the Junior women, and then the Junior men — in both, the separate 15-16 and 17-18-year-old categories raced together. The U23 (Under 23) men followed, and after them the Elite and U23 women also raced together but were scored separately (although in both, younger riders displaced older riders that finished after them — occasionally one would see a talented seventeen-year-old junior on the elite Women’s podium, for example). and then, finally, Mycroft’s race, the Elite men. Before the Junior races, the course was open to everyone.

Sherlock, at fourteen, was the youngest racer — technically he should be turning fifteen within the calendar year to compete with the junior men. But, as Mummy had pointed out to the officials, he held his own in the 15-16 age group, never finishing outside the top ten, and even, depending on the course, could be competitive with the 17-18-year-olds who raced alongside the younger riders. They had (wisely in Mycroft’s opinion) bowed to her wisdom and allowed Sherlock to race.*

Kortrik on paper was a good course for both Mycroft and Sherlock — Mycroft rode it with his brother and Uncle Rudy slowly enough that they could discuss the best lines down the descent and the perfect angles through the corners. There was some single-track that could cause a real log jam if one got caught behind slower riders, and the three long ascents that favoured lighter racers like Mycroft and Sherlock.**

For this race, Sherlock had amassed the points to graduate from the third row — of five — to the second row, right behind the strongest 17-18-year-olds, and though he tried not to show it, he was massively excited.

As Mycroft collected his brother’s coat and mittens right before the start, Lestrade appeared next to him. “Have a good race, Sherlock.” He said. “I’m rooting for you.”

Sherlock sucked in a starstruck breath and nodded once. They watched as he positioned himself carefully and, when the lights turned green, sprinted hard. 

“Where are you gonna watch?” Lestrade asked Mycroft.

“The race is only half an hour.” Mycroft said. “I generally stay here and watch the jumbotron.” Father was in the bike pit with the mechanics and Mummy and Uncle Rudy were already at strategic positions where they could give Sherlock information — like how far ahead or behind he was from other racers — where they could yell encouragement and advice and where they could relay to the pit if Sherlock signalled that he wanted a bike with a different tyre pressure better suited to the conditions of the course.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not.” Mycroft did not mind, he simply didn’t understand why Lestrade would _want_ to join him.

“Damn! He’s doing ok!”

Mycroft looked up at the screen — the course began with an uphill climb and Sherlock had shot from the second row to the first, making it to the crest in fifth place.

“You’re proud of him, little snot-nose. I would be too.” Lestrade said. “How many laps you think they’ll get?”

“Three or four. With the longer climbs, probably three.”

“A three-lap race... Jesus, when was the last time you only raced three laps?”

“More recently than you, I imagine. It’s not been three years since I was eighteen.”

“Three? I thought you were twenty-three.”

“No. I’ll be twenty-one in March.”

Lestrade harrumphed. “Well, you’re doing alright in the elites, Slim. I’m not gonna say you upgraded too soon. Look — there he is!”

Sherlock was riding in the front group of seven. As they watched, he let a gap open up between himself and the rider ahead. Mycroft made a frustrated noise.

“He’s doing great.” Lestrade assured him. “He lacks a bit of power, that’s all. He’ll catch them up on the hill.”

Sherlock stayed with that group through the first lap. On the second lap, the accordion effect began to tell, the gaps opening more quickly and closing more slowly. Two riders caught and overtook him, but three from the front group dropped back. 

The third lap was hard to watch. Sherlock toiled, teeth gritted in determination, trying his damnedest to stay with two older boys. He outdistanced them uphill, but they caught him easily on the descents — despite Sherlock’s fearlessness. Mycroft winced as he cut corner after corner too close, defying physics to stay on his bike. 

It came down to size and experience. The older boys boxed him out. Sherlock attempted a manoeuvre similar to what Mycroft had pulled on Lestrade, slipping through on the inside line of a corner, but the bigger of the two boys stuck out his elbow and Sherlock bounced off. 

“He’s mad now.” Lestrade observed.

“It makes him sloppy.” Mycroft muttered. 

Sure enough, Sherlock slid out on a corner he should have easily nailed. He never caught back up to his two nemeses, but still finished ninth overall, second in the 15-16 age group.

He was in a fury when Mycroft caught up to him. He knew better than to say anything, but as soon as Sherlock caught his breath, he began a loud diatribe. Mycroft couldn’t help himself, he tried to shush his brother.

“No, no.” Lestrade said. “Sherlock’s right. C’mere.” The Belgian wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and began talking to him in low tones, as if plotting. Soon enough, Sherlock had matched Lestrade’s pitch, speaking with his hands as much as his mouth, but actually _listening_ to Lestrade. Mycroft swallowed his astonishment and did not interfere. 

Mummy looked surprised when she arrived, glancing at Mycroft for an explanation he did not have. She started towards them... he did not know why, but Mycroft did not want her to interfere — he was relieved when Uncle Rudy showed up before she could say anything.

They took Sherlock off to change for the podium — his brother appeared to be much calmer than Mycroft thought possible after working himself into a strop. He heard Mummy asking what Lestrade had said to him.

“High spirits.” Lestrade remarked. “Racing’s a good outlet.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft did not voice his reservations — he hoped racing was enough of an outlet for his ‘high-spirited’ little brother. Sherlock’s preoccupation with the drowning of a teenaged swimmer last year suggested that ultimately, it would not be.

They wandered aimlessly, talking about the course, about their favourite races. “When did you start racing?” Lestrade asked.

“I rode my first race when I was eight.” Mycroft told him. “I could barely lift my bicycle over the barriers.”

Lestrade chuckled, looking charmed. “How did you do?”

Mycroft gave him a small smile. “I won my age group.”

Laughing, Lestrade bumped his shoulder against Mycroft’s. “Of course you did.”

“When was your first race?”

“I was a little older, twelve. I saw Zdenēk Štybar and Lars Boom just crushing the U23 field. They were having so much fun — you could tell they were mates — they had a fierce and friendly rivalry. I wanted to do that.”

“And now you do.”

A father and a boy a few years younger than Sherlock accosted them, asking Lestrade for a selfie with the boy. The Belgian obliged and was soon inundated with requests. Mycroft stood by, thinking himself very lucky not to have fans — until he too was recognised. His Belgian heritage — Mummy had been born here — had been widely reported and it endeared him to the Belgians. That he was fluent in Flemish practically made him one of their own, British Champion or no.

It was a few minutes before they could extricate themselves. When they did, they made their way to the rider’s compound where the general public was not invited.

An alert sounded. “Oh, that’s me.” Mycroft said, pulling his phone from his jersey and switching the alarm off. “Time to eat.”

Lestrade grinned. “You eat on schedule?”

“Don’t you?” Mycroft asked. 

“Er, no.” Lestrade followed him to his bus. “Wanna get some frites then? I love the smell of frites.”

“I’m afraid they’re not on my diet.” Lestrade scoffed, but Mycroft sighed thinking how very much he would like some frites. He knocked on the bus and Anthea popped out with a lunch bag. 

Mummy was with her. She frowned at Mycroft. 

“Have you met Greg Lestrade?” Mycroft asked rhetorically. “Greg, this is my mother, Violette Holmes, and this is my soigneur, Anthea.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Madame Holmes, Anthea.”

“Monsieur Lestrade.” To Mycroft’s dismay, Mummy looked suspiciously between him and the World Champion. “To what do we owe the honour?”

Grinning, Lestrade put up his hands. “Nothing. Just wanted to see what’s on the menu.”

“Date and honey rice bars — Anthea makes them herself — boiled eggs, a banana, easy peelers, and a carb and protein drink.” Mycroft recited. It was the same every race day.

“Yummy.” Lestrade said unconvincingly.

Mummy put her hands on her hips. “Are you trying to sabotage him?”

Mycroft was in hell. “Mummy!” He absolutely hated when her overly protective side made an appearance — it was almost exclusively when another man showed the least bit of friendliness to either of her sons.

“What? Me!” Lestrade sounded astonished.

“Don’t give me that. You’re bouncing around like a big puppy sticking your nose in Mycroft’s business... a little _too_ interested in his diet. Sabotage.”

“No, ma’am, I would never! I’m no cheat.”

“Mummy, _Greg Lestrade_ does not have to resort to sabotage to win.”

“Then what is this about!?” Mummy gestured at the two of them.

Lestrade’s face couldn’t decide if it wanted to grin or grimace or just gape in astonishment. “Just hanging out with my friend.”

Both Mycroft and Mummy stared. Anthea made a small choking noise. “Friend?” Mummy scoffed. “Mycroft doesn’t have _friends_.”

She was correct. Mycroft had been very careful to avoid becoming too close to any of the other racers — to anyone outside the small circle of his family and Anthea. He had even kept his mechanics at a cordial arm’s length. His companions were Mummy and Sherlock and to a lesser extent Father, Uncle Rudy and Anthea — more than enough for one as introverted as Mycroft.

But now... now he felt rebellious... what was so wrong with him that he couldn’t have _friends_? Why did he have to be alone? He knew Mummy’s fears for him, but what could be wrong with having a friend?

“Bullshit.” Lestrade pronounced. Mycroft blanched — no one talked to Mummy like that! “I appreciate that you’re trying to protect your son, but you can’t dictate if he gets to have friends and who they are. If Mycroft wants company while he eats those _delicious_ looking rice bars, I’m happy to keep him company.”

Mummy stared at Lestrade challengingly — he crossed his arms and stared right back. 

Something deep inside Mycroft wanted to sing with joy that Lestrade was his friend! He waited miserably for Mummy to send him away.

But she did not. Mummy ‘tsked.’ “Very well. Mycroft, a word.” She stared at Lestrade until he stepped away then put her head next to her son’s. “What are you doing?” She demanded.

“I’m not… he approached me, Mummy. I’m sure he’s just sizing up the competition.”

“Don’t play games, Mycroft — you don’t need the distraction. Remember, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.”

Mycroft sighed. “I met him _yesterday_. That’s hardly enough time for chemical involvement.”

“Be very careful, son.” She commanded and gesturing to Anthea to follow, she disappeared into the bus slamming the door.

“Well... she seems nice.” Lestrade remarked blandly as Mycroft joined him.

“Believe it or not, I think she likes you.” She had seen Lestrade with his girlfriend. Mycroft knew Mummy liked _that_ quite a lot.

Lestrade smirked. “All mothers love me. I’m the housewives’ darling.”

Mycroft snorted. “No accounting for taste.”

Lestrade bought a waffle and traded a bite of forbidden wheat and caramelised sugar for a bite of date and honey rice bar. Mycroft suspected Lestrade would have given him more than a bite, but his dietary habits were too ingrained. (And truly, Anthea’s rice bars were perfectly acceptable.) They stayed together until the last lap of the U23 men’s race — where a new bloke by the name of Watson was crushing the competition. 

“Those little guys.” Lestrade said half mournfully. “They can just rocket up those climbs.”**

“Is there a hill long enough in all of Belgium that your power won’t take you up just as fast.” Mycroft asked acidly. “These short climbs are nothing to you.”

“Sure, on the first lap. And the second. On the eighth... not so much.” Lestrade smiled and chucked Mycroft on the shoulder. “Listen, Slim, I gotta go warm up. I’ll see you out there.”

“Why do you call me that — Slim?”

Lestrade shrugged. “It suits you.”

“It’s not my name.”

“It’s a nickname. No one ever gave you a nickname before?”

“Only the race commentators.”

Lestrade’s grin was feral. “’The Iceman.’ That’s a good one. Right up there with ‘The Cannibal’ and ‘The Shark of Messina.’” He chuckled. “’Slim’ is more approachable.”

“I’m not approachable.”

“Sure you are, Slim. I’ll be approaching you from behind in about two hours.”

Mycroft relented, giving Lestrade a small smile. “What is it Sherlock said? Third lap? Fourth?”

“Second! I’ll be sucking your wheel in the second lap. Maybe the first!”

“From the seventh row?”

“Greg?”

“Oh, hey, sweetheart.” Greg greeted the blonde woman from yesterday with enthusiasm and a kiss. “Have you met Mycroft? Mycroft this is my girlfriend, Fleur. Sweetheart, this is Mycroft Holmes who I am going to crush today.”

Mycroft smiled and made the appropriate noises. Fleur was lovely, tall and slender with a sunny smile and wide brown eyes. They looked gorgeous together. 

She could not have been less interested in Mycroft.

Mycroft was happy to excuse himself — he needed to prepare as well... but he couldn’t help overhearing some of Lestrade’s conversation with his girlfriend.

“I have to get dressed now, sweetheart. I have to warm up.”

“But I just found you!” She pouted. “You could spend a little time with me.”

“You know I can’t...”

“Gre-eg...”

“You know what time I have to start getting ready, Sweetheart. It’s the same every race.”

“You never want to spend time with me.”

“I do! Of course, I do! But you know my schedule.” He tried to kiss her, but she turned her face away. “Don’t be like this. I’ll see you afterwards, yeah?”

“That’s _hours_ from now and you’ll be tired and smelly.”

“I’ll take a shower.”

“You’ll still be worn out. I don’t know why you expect me to wait _hours_ just to watch you eat and fall asleep.”

“Listen, I’m sorry. But I have to go now or I’m going to miss pre-riding the course.” Lestrade was firm, but still pleading. “I have to go.”

Mycroft watched him walk away from Fleur — it was the first time he’d seen tension in the Belgian’s shoulders and jaw.

“That won’t last.” Sherlock appeared beside him.

“It may. Some people love the drama.” Mycroft was counting on Sherlock himself to attract the sort who couldn’t live without a bit of drama.

“Ugh! She’s horrid.”

Mycroft scoffed. “She is at that.” Lestrade deserved better.

—-

From his place on the front row, Mycroft had no sense of where Lestrade was lined up — he was at the very back, he would have to fight his way through seventy-eight riders to get to the front of the race.

The red lights turned green and Mycroft forgot all about Lestrade as he shot up the first hill. 

Ugh! His legs felt awful! They’d been dead all through his warm up. He’d hoped the adrenaline of the race would make the difference but his climbing was pathetic!

The first ‘hill’ was actually a bridge that curved over a river at a six percent grade. Up one side, over the flatter top, down the other, braking to make a very tight downhill 180 into single track along the river’s bank. Mycroft was _fifteenth_ into the single track and chastised himself furiously — he should have been in the top three. Vanthourenhout was far ahead of him and one of his orange men understood the opportunity Mycroft’s poor start gave his team leader. He sat in front of Mycroft in the single track, slowing down where the course was so narrow, they had to ride single-file, blocking Mycroft from chasing. It was a solid tactic, well-executed. Whilst a part of him admired the strategy, most of him wanted to ride right over the berk. 

As soon as the course opened up, Mycroft sped around the man — dead legs or no, Mycroft would not yield. Vanthourenhout and at least ten others had a significant gap and three more were between Mycroft and the Vanthourenhout group — Mycroft estimated the three had fifteen seconds. 

He did not panic. This was only the first lap. 

He rode the flyover alone, flogging his wooden legs, cresting just as the three ahead disappeared around the bend. He saw them briefly as he entered the first off-camber, but lost them as they rode into the trees and disappeared down a precipitous drop.

He descended after them at speed, only allowing his eyes to look at the line he wanted his bike to take — never looking where he might crash — the bike will invariably follow the eyes. At the bottom Mycroft had closed the gap to five seconds. 

The second climb was longer, up four switchbacks to the top of a round hill. Mycroft was able to catch and pass the three racers. All three got on his wheel — Mycroft was not surprised. Cyclocross was a sport of attrition, he would have to wear them down and drop them one-by-one. 

The sandpit hadn’t been trucked in, nor was it a kids’ sandbox repurposed for the race. Rather it was a natural sand shoal on the riverbank. It was cold and wet enough to be a real obstacle, but not cold enough to be frozen solid, making it a treacherous thirty metres. During his pre-ride, Mycroft had liked the line closest to the river, skimming along the orange course fence through a few centimetres of water. But as soon as he took the line, he saw it had collapsed during the women’s race, the river eating into it making it into quicksand. He had to change tack immediately.

As a right-hander, Mycroft generally dismounted on the left side of his bike, hoisting or pushing it with his right. But up against the left-hand barrier, that was impossible. Mycroft dismounted on the right — what the commentators called a goofy-side, or dirty-side dismount. He’d practiced it until he could execute it perfectly, but had never used it in a race situation. He couldn’t do it as thoughtlessly as his normal dismount, but it got him off the bike and out of the water before it took him down. 

The surprise, goofy-side dismount caused a ripple effect. The man directly behind Mycroft tripped and went down and the racer after him became tangled in the orange netting. The third man had time to change course and ride around the pile up. Mycroft was running by then, but he was anticipating the goofy-side remount and failed to land on the saddle correctly, bunging his inner thigh on its nose. It forced him to put a foot down, stopping his forward momentum. By the time he righted himself and began pedalling a second racer had passed him as well. 

He chased them up the rocky third climb — it was a mountain bike-style path through a forested hillside. The second off camber was here, featuring a 180 that was impossible to ride. All the racers dismounted and ran around the corner. Remounting successfully on the off camber after the turn was also nigh impossible, so Mycroft ran all the way to the crest of the hill and leapt back on the bike for the technical descent.

He finally caught the two he’d been chasing as they crossed the start/finish and began sprinting up the bridge again. As they crested, he caught sight of the tail end of another group.

Mycroft caught up and was again trapped behind slower racers through the single track — though it wasn’t purposeful this time — and he again zipped around them as they exited, making up ground on the flyover and shooting up the switchbacked climb faster than any of the other riders. By the top, he’d tagged onto the back of the lead group, the group containing Vanthourenhout.

His legs were starting to wake up.

Vanthourenhout was the best sand-rider Mycroft had ever seen. He’d studied the other racer’s technique attempting to learn his secrets. What Mycroft learned was following Vanthourenhout through a sand pit was the surest way to ride across unscathed. Vanthourenhout clearly wanted to be first through the pit — he didn’t want to be held up by another rider’s mistake — and Mycroft was happy to follow him. Vanthourenhout took a central line, churning sand up around his wheels. 

Mycroft was fourth into the sand and that’s when disaster struck. The rider behind Mycroft attempted to pass on the dangerous river side — which proved to be too ambitious. He was forced to dismount awkwardly which sent the rider behind him swerving to the right, losing momentum and jumping off his bike. That racer’s foot struck Mycroft’s derailleur, shearing it off, stranding Mycroft in the centre of the sand pit. 

He leapt off the machine and ran, shouldering the useless bike. He wasn’t too far from the pit, where he could change for another bike, but he would have to run the entire way, whilst the other racers rode. It could have been worse — the pit could have been on the other side of the course.

The racers Mycroft dropped on the climb caught up and flew past, then two more together and then a group of three. He’d lost almost forty seconds on Vanthourenhout at the front of the race by the time he leapt upon a fresh bike and began chasing. 

It’s only the second lap, Mycroft reminded himself sternly. He had time to make up ground.

As he started up the bridge on the third lap, someone rode up beside him. It was Lestrade, resplendent in his World Champion’s jersey. “Get on my wheel.” The Belgian shouted.

Mycroft sped up, placing himself directly behind the other bike and let Lestrade set the pace, but on the downhill before the single track he signalled that he wanted to lead. Lestrade allowed it and followed him around the 180, down the steep embankment into the wooded single track. For the first time, Mycroft could ride it at top speed — and his legs were beginning to feel really good! It was glorious! Riding up and down around trees and over rocks, swooping towards the river, then pulling up into a short, sharp gravelled climb. As they exited into the power sector, Lestrade came around and Mycroft grabbed his wheel. They shot over the flyover and towards the switchbacks together, overtaking riders on the way. They passed two more before they crested the climb.

Mycroft led down the steep, curving descent, and towards the dreaded sand. He rode in first but Lestrade led them out. This sandy shoal was beginning to feel like Mycroft’s Achilles’ heel.

They continued to work together, helping each other, trading pulls. In the fifth lap, they finally found the front of the race. Lestrade immediately attacked. Mycroft shrugged at Vanthourenhout forcing the other man to chase, following him. 

That broke the other riders with them and they fell off the pace as Vanthourenhout heroically bridged to Lestrade. The three of them rode through the course together, competing now for who would be in front. Lestrade attacked again and this time, Mycroft was right on his wheel. Vanthourenhout was gapped, but fought his way back on. 

They started the sixth lap together, sitting up and checking behind. Lestrade ripped a gel open with his teeth and squirted the contents into his mouth. Mycroft went to the front. 

He was leading through the single track when he heard the awful sound of brakes squealing and gravel spraying. One or both had crashed behind him! It wasn’t until he reached the power sector that Mycroft could glance back and see that whilst Vanthourenhout rode his wheel, Lestrade did not.

The chill of worry prickled under Mycroft’s skin, but he shook it off. This was a race!

On the switchbacks, he caught sight of Lestrade behind them chasing hard, his skinsuit ripped open and bloody at his hip. It looked painful, but Mycroft knew from experience that the adrenaline would keep Lestrade from feeling it until after the race. 

Vanthourenhout led through the sand again, this time Mycroft held his wheel all the way through. 

Somehow, through the mountain-bike climb Lestrade dragged himself closer to Mycroft and Vanthourenhout. He chased them round the off camber and caught them as they swooped down into the start finish. The three of them rode lap seven neck-in-neck, each hitting out, attacking the others, but no one getting a gap. As they crossed the line for the eighth lap, they heard the bell — this would be the last lap. 

Mycroft fought hard, sticking out his elbows and taking the turn down the embankment dangerously fast, so he could be first into the single track. He gunned it, using all his skills to ride the technical section as fast and flawlessly as possible. He had a gap coming out, but both the other racers chased him down on the power straight. Mycroft gave 200 percent up the switchbacks, again gapping the two heavier riders. He managed to maintain his lead into the sand — but he emerged with them again on his wheel. Vanthourenhout attacked on the rocky climb and they caught him. Lestrade attacked next and Mycroft dragged himself back to the man. He attacked and Lestrade was on him in an instant, but Vanthourenhout lost two bike lengths and Mycroft could clearly see he was struggling. 

He caught on again as the three of them ran the exhausting off camber corner, across the steep hillside to the crest, leapt upon their bikes in unison and swooped down the technical descent to the climb up the bridge to the finish line. It was a three-up sprint to the line! Mycroft gave it everything, standing, punching the pedals, yanking up one side of the bars and then the other. He felt Vanthourenhout against his elbow, their handlebars rubbing for a second before they both swerved away. Lestrade was so strong! He drew ahead of both Mycroft and Vanthourenhout. Mycroft sprinted as hard as he could, but the other riders simply had more left in their tanks — Lestrade won, Vanthourenhout crossed in second and half a wheel behind, Mycroft took third.

He braked, gasping for air. Someone grabbed him before his bike fell over and Mycroft sagged against him. When he could stand, Uncle Rudy took his bike and Father led him towards the warming trailer.

He was happy the race was over, but dreading Mummy’s lecture and Father’s disappointment over his third place. The obsessive post-mortem of the race, pinpointing everything he had done wrong or not done right enough that awaited him made him feel exhausted.

But Father surprised him: Mycroft hadn’t won, but he was on the podium and he was up to second in the DVV race series, right behind Vanthourenhout. Both were consolation prizes that were, Father insisted, actually consoling.

A race official took his bike away to be x-rayed*** and Mycroft sat down in the warming trailer next to his chaperone. 

Lestrade had already towelled off and was being interviewed when he arrived. Mycroft complimented Thijs Vanthourenhout on his skill in the sand and they commiserated about losing to the legendary Greg Lestrade. Mycroft knew neither he nor Thijs accepted it as inevitable — they both wanted the top step of the podium.

But Mycroft had to admit, Lestrade looked _right_ standing in the winner’s spot. His smile was so sincere and handsome it hurt. As they descended the stairs after the ceremony, Lestrade turned and batted Mycroft with his bouquet.

“Good race, Slim.”

“You would think so, you won.” Mycroft teased. Then he remembered. “Sounded like you went down pretty hard — you’re ok?” Half of Lestrade’s left buttock had been exposed by the ripped spandex as he’d crossed the line ahead of Mycroft.

“Just a little banged up, nothing serious — I had worse yesterday in the cold.”

“I hope that’s true.” Mycroft said, doubting it. “I hope you can sleep tonight.” It could be difficult to sleep on the kinds of injuries common to falling off a bike — missing skin and deep bruising was never comfortable.

“If I can’t, I’ll knock you up. We can get that pint.” Lestrade grinned. “Well, we already have it, don’t we.” He hoisted the large bottle of beer that had been presented to him on the podium — Mycroft held an identical bottle.

“Oh —"

“Greg!” Fleur appeared. Mycroft made note of the fleeting expression, carefully hidden before Lestrade turned to his girlfriend.

“Hey, Sweetheart.” He kissed her, wincing with his entire body when she wrapped her arms around him, careless of any injury he might have sustained.

“Oh Greg, you were brilliant.” She said in Flemish taking his bouquet of flowers and inhaling their fragrance. “How long do you think you’ll be? Sanne and Wout want to get dinner...”

Mycroft walked until he could no longer hear her voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This would not happen. Sherlock would have to be turning fifteen within the calendar year to have a ‘racing age’ of fifteen. If he wouldn’t turn fifteen until January, he wouldn’t be allowed to race in the 15-16 category until January 1.
> 
> **Lestrade’s bulkier frame might give him more power on the flats and in the wind, but the lighter Mycroft had an advantage up hills, where power to weight was the only equation that mattered. ‘Bulkier’ in this case refers to bone and muscle, neither man had more than two percent body fat. Neither did either man carry a gram of muscle more than what was needed to make a bicycle go fast. Lestrade was simply genetically programmed to build fast-twitch muscle quickly and easily, thus he could never drop enough muscle to compete on long uphills (think mountains) with Mycroft.
> 
> ***Bikes of pro cyclists are sometimes x-rayed to make certain that there is no internal motor. Only one cyclist has ever attempted to cheat this way, a racer in the 2016 U23 women’s World Championship Cyclocross race. She received a six-year ban from all bike racing and a 20,000 Swiss Franc fine. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mechanical_doping
> 
> How pro cyclists are drug tested: https://amp.businessinsider.com/how-cyclists-are-drug-tested-2015-9


	3. BELL-X HOTEL KORTRIJK-WEVELGEM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that day...

Mycroft was scheduled to return to the UK in the morning after a short two-hour recovery ride, thus he was amongst the few who remained in the hotel another night. Mycroft went through his routine — biking slowly back to the hotel from the race course, shower, nap, dinner and race rehash — he would watch video of the race with Uncle Rudy, dissecting what had gone wrong and what had gone right — then his massage. Mummy, who hated long drives in the bus, had flown home to Holmescroft with Father, leaving Mycroft and Sherlock with their uncle, the mechanics and Anthea. 

Mycroft wished they’d taken Sherlock with them.

It _was_ boring. Mycroft thought dully. The scheduled life, the same seven people day in and day out. Sharing a room with Sherlock. Motorpacing with Uncle Rudy. Intervals. Core strength. Plyometrics. Skills practice. The same food, the same conversations. His brother was right. It was boring enough to drive him insane. How did he stand it the rest of the time?

He stood it because he loved to ride. And Mycroft _really_ loved to race. Regimentation was the cost of success.

But sometimes... sometimes Mycroft wondered if there could be... more.

No. To have _more_ Mycroft would have to give up everything — Mummy could not bear it and Father would follow her lead. Mycroft would never see his family again. Never ride with Uncle Rudy again. Never even _talk_ to Sherlock again.

And when the world discovered his true nature, he’d lose the racing too. His ambitions for the future would be dashed. No one would want him.

He sighed.

Mycroft was just about to turn off the lights when there was a knock at the door. “Anthea.” Sherlock snarled. “Checking up on you. Mummy’s orders.”

He feared his brother was correct as he went dutifully to the door. Mycroft put his eye to the spy hole and saw Lestrade fish eyed in the corridor.

“Oh!” Mycroft opened the door. “Lestrade.”

“Greg.” Lestrade prompted with a smile.

“Yes, apologies. Greg. Come in.”

“Thanks, I just wanted to deliver these.” He held up two folded, knobby tyres, still in their packaging. 

“Greg, you didn’t really have to...”

“Yes, he did.” Sherlock said, bouncing off his bed and snatching them from Lestrade’s hands. He flopped back on his bed to examine them.

“Sherlock!”

“No, he’s right. A bet’s a bet.”

“Well, come in. Sit down.” Mycroft invited. He closed the door and turned around to realise the only place to sit was the narrow bed — his bed, of course as it was neatly made, not a rat’s nest like Sherlock’s. His mortification increased as he recognised that he was in his pyjamas — soft, clinging trousers that left little to the imagination and a t-shirt with a deep V-neck that exposed his utterly hairless chest. That led him to wonder about the state of his unfortunately ginger hair. Probably a complete mess yet somehow revealing that at not-quite-twenty-one, Mycroft’s hairline was already beginning to recede.

And Lord, Gregory Lestrade was a beautiful creature! With his lovely soft eyes and perfectly floppy dark hair, his broad, masculine shoulders and massive, muscular thighs and buttocks. He had beautiful hands, the palms calloused where he gripped the handlebars, and thick, blunt fingers...

Mycroft cut off that train of thought before it could become even more embarrassing for him. Casually — he hoped — he crossed the room and leaned against the windowsill, forcing himself not to cross his arms defensively over his narrow chest. Or worse hold them in front of his crotch. Lestrade’s eyes followed him, took him in from bare toes to auburn waves and everything in-between... Mycroft wondered that he didn’t laugh or even smirk at his awkward skinniness wrapped in too-revealing pyjamas.

“Are these the tyres you use?” Sherlock reminded them both he was still in the room.

“In the mud, yeah. Day like today, something a little more slick.”

“Mm. Good win today, from the back row. _Mycroft_ did that too — in both series, not just the one.”

“I know.” Lestrade said. “It was very impressive.”

“You watched.” Sherlock realised. “Of course.”

“Of course!”

“You would want to study the competition.”

Lestrade smiled. “I like watching a good race. When a bloke just up from U23 is winning from the back of the field...”

“In America, though.” Sherlock scoffed.

Mycroft sighed. The first two World Cup races were held in the United States where cyclocross was becoming increasingly popular. Not all of the top European racers bothered to cross the pond — it was an expensive endeavour to ship all the support personnel and equipment — thus the field was not considered as strong as its European counterpart.* Mycroft had won the first two races in the US, then lost the next two in Europe to Vanthourenhout. 

“All I know is I’m watching a pretty good race, when this bloke...” Lestrade gestured towards Mycroft. “Comes out of nowhere, just blowing by everyone. Icing the competition! Great racing! The whole room erupted! Everyone screaming, rooting for Mycroft.”

“Everyone loves an underdog.” Sherlock snipped.

“I couldn’t wait to get out there and test my legs against ‘The Iceman’s.’” He smiled at Mycroft and it was impossibly intimate. Mycroft felt his face heat.

Sherlock broke the moment. “Why are you still here? In the hotel — don’t you live in Belgium?”

“Sherlock...” Mycroft said, exasperated.

Lestrade was unfazed. “Fleur, my girlfriend is from Kortrijk. We’re spending a few days here.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “But why are you _here_? Shouldn’t you be with her?”

“Good Lord, Sherlock —!”

“She’s catching up with some old friends.” Lestrade said evenly. “I’m a bit tired tonight — back-to-back races.”

“She resents the amount of time you spend on your bike.” Sherlock said offhandedly, returning his attention to his study of the tyres. “If she isn’t cheating on you yet, she will. She’s wrong for you.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft was horrified. “Apologise this instant!

Lestrade looked shocked, his mouth hanging open. 

“Why? It’s true.”

“That’s not the point!” Mycroft snapped. “It’s completely inappropriate to make comments about other people’s relationships.”

“Isn’t it _kinder_ to let him know than to let him be miserable?”

“Sherlock, what you said, that wasn’t _kind_.”

“Like you’d know kindness if it bit you on the arse.”

“Wait. Wait a minute.” Lestrade interjected. He turned to Mycroft. “You agree with him. About Fleur.”

“I didn’t say —“

“He said it was true and you said ‘that’s not the point.’ You agree with him.”

“Because it’s _obvious_!” Sherlock moaned, wiggling on his bed.

“It’s not obvious to me.” Lestrade asserted.

That’s because you’re stupid...”

“SHERLOCK!!!” Mycroft cried.

“Ok, you’re not _completely_ stupid.” The boy rolled his eyes.

Mycroft wrung his hands — Sherlock was driving Lestrade away... Mycroft’s _friend_! How he had achieved a friendship was still completely mysterious to him, but he _did not want to lose Lestrade_!

No.

He was being absurd — he’d met Lestrade _yesterday_! They weren’t _friends_ — they were barely acquaintances. Mycroft could not lose what he didn’t have.

But Sherlock didn’t have to chase him away _so soon_.

Lestrade, to Mycroft’s utter shock, laughed. 

It wasn’t the beautiful, ringing peals of laughter of the night before, nor the easy, happy laughter from their conversation in the warming tent, no, this laughter was quizzical... yet still good-natured and sincere. “You’re a right prat, Sherlock.” Lestrade announced. “a real ray of sunshine. Might wanna work on that if you think you’re going to want a girlfriend of your own one day.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Girlfriend? No. Not my area.”

“When you’re older.” Lestrade said. “Or... oh... did you mean... boyfriends won’t put up with that shite either.”

The fourteen-year-old snorted derisively. “Boyfriends! That’s _Mycroft’s_ perversion, not mine!” 

“ _Sherlock!_ ” Mycroft whispered in despair. He wanted to sink into the carpet and disappear.

Sherlock fixed Lestrade with an owlish stare. “Come to think of it, that’s probably why he likes _you_. He wants you to be his boyfriend.” He nodded. “It makes sense now.”

“ _Sherlock_!” Mycroft’s life was over. “That’s not true...”

“ _That’s not cool_.” Lestrade said so sternly that Sherlock stilled and closed his mouth. Mycroft wanted to die — quickly before he had to hear Lestrade’s rejection. “Sherlock, why would you try to denigrate your brother?” He looked around the room, clearly angry, and stood up. “You know, my cousin is gay and I can’t stand it when people try to put him down for it! Perversion! I don’t want to hear that shite! There’s nothing wrong with being gay! And Mycroft’s your brother! You should be the one standing up for him, not the one being cruel!”

Lestrade knew he was gay. He _knew_! Sherlock had ruined everything. Mycroft was horrified, embarrassed, humiliated and he could not bear it any longer. He was at the door without remembering having crossed the room. “Taking a walk.” He said over his shoulder and left, stumbling blindly down the hall.

Through his misery, he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Sherlock had told Lestrade his disgusting secret... but Lestrade hadn’t recoiled from Mycroft... hadn’t accused him of trying to pull him... hadn’t laughed or taunted or insulted him... he hadn’t... he’d... had he _defended_ him?

Had Lestrade been angry with _Sherlock_? No one got mad at _Sherlock_ when he outed Mycroft. Mummy had cried and Father looked crestfallen. They had threatened to ship him off to the military or a sanatorium — Mycroft wasn’t certain that still happened any more, but he wasn’t going to take the chance. Last thing he needed was electroshock ‘therapy’ for kissing the gardener’s boy behind the hedgerow.

And since then he’d done _nothing_! He’d put everything into racing — Mycroft hadn’t even looked at another man! Not like that!

He punched the button for the lift, not knowing where to go except ‘away.’ He prowled the lift lobby restlessly, unable to settle. Finally, it arrived and Mycroft was inside. He pressed the button for the ground floor.

“Hey!” A hand shot through the closing doors, forcing them to reopen. Lestrade. He got on the lift. Mycroft couldn’t look at him. “I’m glad I caught you.” Lestrade said, pushing one of the lift buttons.

Lestrade was a good man. He’d say he still wanted Mycroft as a friend — he might even believe it. Mycroft would agree, but he knew better than to count on it. Mycroft knew how this went. At least Lestrade wouldn’t laugh at him. Not to Mycroft’s face anyway — how long before Marcel’s gossip was that ‘The Iceman’ was a poofter? He imagined them sniggering together...

“Hey, I’m sorry. That was rough.”

“Mm.”

“Seems he got the impression at home that it was OK to treat you like that” Lestrade rumbled. “I don’t want to say anything bad about your parents, Mycroft — they love you and they support your racing one hundred percent — but no one should treat anyone like that.” He put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and it was all Mycroft could do not to flinch away. “No one should treat _you_ like that.”

The lift bell dinged. “Here we are.” Lestrade said. “Come on.”

This wasn’t the lobby. “Where are we?” Mycroft asked dully.

“This is my floor.”

“Mm.” Mycroft settled back into his corner. “Well, I’ll see you. Two weeks, yeah? Nommay.”

Lestrade scoffed. “My room’s right down the hall.” He put his hand against the door, holding the lift open. 

“I’m not going to your room.” Mycroft stared at the floor. He felt absolutely exhausted.

“Slim, you’re barefoot and you’re in your pyjamas. Where were you planning to go?”

He had a point. Mycroft could knock on Anthea’s door, but she’d text Mummy. Not the mechanics. They were good people, but... no. He could go to Uncle Rudy in an emergency which this was _not_. “We’ve known each other two days. What do you care?”

“Because I do.”

Mycroft gave up. He was too old to be rowing with his little brother. “I’ll go back to my room.” He said, realising with a sinking heart he did not have a room key with him. Sherlock would let him in. Eventually.

“Don’t be an idiot, Mycroft. There’s an extra bed in my room. And if I’m honest...” Lestrade sighed. “I’d rather not be alone right now.”

Startled, Mycroft looked at Lestrade — really looked — and saw the truth of it. Lestrade was... unhappy. And he was holding himself oddly. It had nothing to do with Mycroft. “Apologies, I’ve been selfish. Lead the way.”

“You’re all right, Slim.” Lestrade mumbled, holding the door open for him. Mycroft followed him down the corridor — the hotel was quieter tonight than it had been the night before the race.

Lestrade’s room was a twin of Mycroft and Sherlock’s except Lestrade had used one of the single beds for his suitcase. A bicycle leaned against the television, a jar of nutella in front of it. A damp white skinsuit, rainbow rings across the chest, hung from a hanger in front of the window. A pair of muddy cycling shoes were stuffed with newspaper, a second pair lay haphazardly nearby, a small pile of socks and spandex clothing lay in a heap near the loo and an Allen wrench set and bottle of bike lube lay under the bicycle. The bed table held a charging cord and a small Bluetooth speaker. He wondered to what Greg listened in his hotel room alone.

Mycroft had been in the rooms of other cyclists and most looked more like this than Mycroft’s digs. Of course, most cyclists didn’t have their own team of six on hand — they shared crew with their teammates and did more for themselves. Somehow, he’d assumed that the legendary Greg Lestrade had someone — several someones — to wash his kit and stuff newspapers in his wet shoes.

On the other hand, he had his own room. Some days, Mycroft would have killed for his own private space.

Lestrade tossed a couple empty water bottles off the single chair and offered it to Mycroft. He sat in it, automatically pulling his bony knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his shins. He looked down at his naked feet, long and narrow with tufts of ginger hair on his big toes. He could feel his callouses catch on the fabric of the chair.

Lestrade smiled softly at the sight of him and, shoving his duffel over, lay back carefully on the closest bed, amongst the tangle of spandex. He arranged the pillows under his head and upper back and took a deep breath, wincing slightly. “You know, I think you might be right about Fleur.”

They _were_ right, but Mycroft’s first reaction was to deny it. “Why?” He asked instead.

“We had a row tonight. Not the first either.” Lestrade rubbed his face. His shirt rode up revealing a strip of his flat belly. “Just didn’t feel up to going out... staying out late... drinking...” He grimaced. 

Mycroft studied him briefly. “You’re injured.” He observed. “The crash today.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade admitted — and Mycroft had the distinct impression there weren’t many people to whom he would admit weakness. 

“Hip?” Mycroft asked.

Lestrade lifted his shirt, revealing a purpling bruise on the side of his chest. “Rib.” He said. “Felt pressure there since I fell, it’s starting to hurt now.”

“Ugh!” Mycroft had had bruised and broken ribs before — nothing was more painful. “Have you taken anything! Paracetamol? Ibuprofen?” Oral OTC painkillers weren’t banned drugs.

“Not yet.”

Mycroft dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward. “You have some here?”

“No, but it’s fine...”

Mycroft shot him a look that said it was very much _not_ fine. He picked up the room phone and dialled for room service. “Hello, we need some ibuprofen and ice in room — what room is this?”

“My, I’m OK...”

“Oh, you can see what room I’m in? 873? Can you supply ibuprofen? Excellent. That and ice and let’s see... you have frites? An order of frites... with what is that usually served? Bicky Burger?” Mycroft glanced up at Lestrade. “No not a Bicky Burger — do you have boulet? Boulet and rice. What kind of veg? Yes, both of those. That sounds perfect. Thank you. No — water, please. Yes, just water. Oh wait — please charge it to my room, Mycroft Holmes, 1134. Yes, I’ll sign for it here. Thank you.”

Lestrade looked flabbergasted. “Mycroft... you didn’t have to do that. I’m OK.”

“Honestly, Greg.” Mycroft said. “Where are your people? How could they leave you like this?”

Lestrade sighed. “My own fault. I chased everyone off to spend time with Fleur. I’m not... I’m not usually so useless.”

“What have you eaten since the race?” Mycroft asked, ticking through his own post-race list.

“Er... recovery drink... two sandwiches... I had a bag of crisps a while ago.”

“Good God, you must be starving.” Mycroft exclaimed, thinking of his own carefully proscribed diet. “I should have ordered more food. I can call for a bowl of pasta...”

“God, no... please. No more pasta. I’m so sick of pasta.”

Mycroft laughed out loud, understanding only too well.**

Startled, Lestrade joined in, chuckling. “Oh no!” He laughed. “Don’t make me laugh, Slim! It hurts.”

Mycroft giggled. “I know. A rib hurts worse than a collarbone. It hurts worse than a toe!”

“You’ve broken a toe?”

“Toes. I don’t recommend it.” The hard-soled cycling shoes had helped a little, but running on broken toes had been agony. “Did you see a doctor?”

“I went by the x-ray truck.” Lestrade said. It’s just cracked. I was more concerned about the hip, but it’s intact.”

“As long as you don’t count skin?”

Lestrade shifted and Mycroft caught sight of the bandage on his hip. “My swanny patched it up.”

Mycroft frowned, studying the gauze.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

“Old school bandage.” Mycroft shrugged. “If you let me, I can wrap it in something a little more high-tech. It won’t scab and pull — let you sleep easier.”

Lestrade looked doubtful. “What is it.”

“Battlefield medicine. Keeps it cleaner, helps it heal faster, hurts less, smaller scars.”

“Oh, that clear plastic stuff? I’ve seen that.”

“You should use it.”

“What the hell, if you’re serious, I’ll give it a shot. Your swanny has some?”

Mycroft smiled and picked up the phone again. He’d forgotten his mobile in the room as well — Sherlock was probably hacking it right now, looking for his porn (he would be disappointed). He dialled Sherlock’s phone, not expecting his brother to actually pick up. He waited for the beep. “Sherlock, I need the medical kit in room 873. And a keycard for our room.” He hung up hoping Sherlock would choose to comply.

“Will he actually bring it?” Lestrade asked.

Mycroft shrugged. “There’s a seventy-three percent chance. He’ll assume this is your room, but he’ll want to confirm. He can threaten to tell Mummy I was alone in another man’s room if I don’t do what he wants.”

“Jesus, Mycroft... you know that’s screwed up. There’s nothing wrong with being here! Even if we were... there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Yes, well, my parents disagree. It’s not worth talking about — they won’t change their minds.”

“It’s not good for you.” Lestrade said.

Mycroft smiled wryly. “Some have said that Fleur’s not good for you. We’re both adults, able to make our own decisions.”

Lestrade nodded. “Touchè. As long as you are making _your_ decisions, not simply accepting theirs.”

“Let’s say I’m biding my time.”

There was a knock at the door. “That was fast.” Lestrade said.

“He’s highly motivated by the prospect of blackmail.” Mycroft told him as he went to open the door.

“Mummy texted.” Sherlock said, holding out Mycroft’s mobile.

Mycroft bypassed it and took hold of the medical kit instead. “What’d you tell her.”

Sherlock paused and Mycroft watched him silently reject several sarcastic retorts. “That you were sleeping.” 

Mycroft nodded — he’d banked on that. They generally had each other’s backs as far as their parents were concerned. It would have been different if his brother thought there might actually be something romantic going on, but though Mycroft knew men with girlfriends occasionally indulged with men — not that he thought Lestrade would — his brother was still too young and too uninterested to know it.

Sherlock held out a key card. “Don’t wake me up.”

“Don’t worry.”

“The crash?” Sherlock asked tapping the medical kit with Mycroft’s mobile.

“Yes.” Mycroft took the phone and put it in his pocket without looking at it.

“Should you be helping the competition?”

“I’m helping a friend.”

“Crash looked bad enough.” Sherlock said. “Bye.” He turned away and retreated down the corridor.

“He’s a strange kid.” Lestrade said when the door had shut, not unkindly.

“Genius makes it difficult to relate to one’s peers. Bike racing helps — he at least has that in common with the other kids... of course he’s precocious athletically as well.”

“It’s good he has you.” Lestrade said. He paused. “Did you have someone, Slim?”

Mycroft smiled without humour. “I have Mummy. OK can you roll onto your side comfortably or is it easier to stand?”

Thankfully, Lestrade took the hint and let the subject of Mycroft’s family drop. He tested rolling onto his side. “Fuck! Ow! That’s... let me try standing up.” Painstakingly he pushed himself to the edge of the bed and heaved himself to his feet. He pressed a hand over his cracked rib, looking pale.

Mycroft washed his hands in the loo. Lestrade’s electric toothbrush was next to the sink alongside a razor, toothpaste and a jar of hair creme. The toothbrush head needed to be changed. “You want to strip off in here? I can step out.”

“We’ve all changed in front of each other before.” Lestrade grumbled. “Honestly, bending over isn’t super fun right now, would you mind...?”

“Pulling your pants down? You do remember I’m gay.” Mycroft deadpanned. He was teasing, but the whole idea made him anxious.

Lestrade laughed. “Don’t make me laugh! Fuck, Mycroft! Ow!”

“Fine, twist my arm. I’ll pull down the handsome man’s trousers.” He knelt next to Lestrade’s injured hip and waited until he’d unknotted the drawstring of his warm up trousers and dropped them to his thighs. Mycroft carefully tugged the boxer briefs down to reveal the swathe of gauze — uncovering part of his genitals which Lestrade covered with the loose warm up trousers clutched in his hand. Lestrade steadied himself with his other hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Hope you don’t mind my arse hanging out.” He said, giving Mycroft’s shoulder a friendly squeeze.

Lestrade’s thighs were massive, stretching the fabric of the jogging trousers. He smelled warm and clean and Mycroft could see some of his dark body hair trailing down the centre of his well-defined abdomen, and downy on the small of his back. His hip bones weren’t nearly so prominent as Mycroft’s own, muscle twining over the bone and shifting under his skin. Mycroft carefully began untaping the gauze. 

It didn’t look good underneath. An area the size of Mycroft’s palm was skinned, the flesh meaty and swollen. “We should clean this again.”

Lestrade groaned. There was antiseptic in the medical kit, but Mycroft started with soap and water on a clean flannel. Lestrade gritted his teeth against the pain. 

Mycroft rinsed the wound and applied the antiseptic with cotton balls from the kit — he’d done all this to himself and Sherlock a hundred times. 

Lestrade shuddered and grunted as Mycroft dabbed antiseptic onto a particularly sore area. “Sorry. Not a very good patient.”

Mycroft snorted. “Next to Sherlock’s writhing and caterwauling?”

“Don’t make me laugh!” Lestrade giggled.

“Let me dry the edges.” Mycroft said getting a towel. He dabbed at the wet skin carefully, then pulled out a sheet of Tegederm. He cut it down to a size that would cover the abraded area, carefully pulled off the backing and applied it, pressing it firmly in place. 

It hurt Lestrade, he gritted his teeth and fisted his hands, dropping his loose trousers. They fell to his ankles giving Mycroft an eye-level view of the bulging thighs and the swell in his tight boxer briefs. A musky scent rolled over him, full-bodied and intoxicating.

Mycroft choked and stood up quickly enough for head rush to black his vision. He grabbed for the sink, but caught Lestrade’s arm instead. 

“Whoa, careful there, Slim.” Lestrade said, his arm wrapping around Mycroft’s waist. It felt _perfect_. Lestrade pulled him close, their chests separated only by the thin cloth of their t-shirts and Mycroft could smell the hotel shampoo Lestrade had used in his hair. It had been a _long_ time since he’d let the gardener’s boy seduce him...

It had been way too long.

Taking a deep breath cleared his vision and Mycroft stepped back. “Sorry, head rush.” He turned away. “Back to bed now.”

He was immensely relieved to hear room service at the door. “That’s your dinner.” Mycroft said, leaving the loo at speed. He busied himself arranging the tray with his back to Lestrade, listening to him getting into bed.

“Need help?” He asked.

“I’m alright.” Lestrade said and though he knew it was a lie, Mycroft didn’t challenge it.

He pulled an ice pack from the medical kit and squeezed it until its innards burst, mixed and grew cold. “Put this on your ribs.” He opened the envelope of ibuprofen and handed it over with the glass of water and waited until Lestrade had swallowed the pills. He took the water and set it on the bedside table and brought the tray of food over. He made certain Lestrade could reach everything. 

“Can’t believe you skipped dinner.” Mycroft muttered as he retreated to the chair, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins.

—-

The room was pitch dark when Mycroft returned, Sherlock snoring lightly in his bed. Using the light of his phone, Mycroft gathered together trousers, waistcoat, socks, shoes, and shirt and took them into the loo. He dressed carefully and styled his hair. He was too thin, but the clothes covered his knobby knees and elbows — and thin was desirable in gay culture. 

With his wallet, phone and key card in his pockets he grabbed his overcoat and quietly left the room.

It wasn’t far to the bar he’d chosen, a twenty-minute walk. There were a dozen gay bars in Kortrijk, several that looked pleasant. Mycroft had chosen Bar Crisco,*** whose Yelp reviews indicated it was the best place for an anon hook-up. He stopped at a convenience store on the way for condoms and a few sachets of lubricant. He bought a bottle of ibuprofen for Lestrade as well.

Bar Crisco wasn’t as sleazy as he’d feared. It was small and tidy with an ornate bar and whilst it wasn’t packed on a Sunday night, the clientele was varied enough to contain a few men Mycroft might consider. 

He knew he was no prize — with his red hair and beaky nose. His eyes were small and no particular colour, just an unremarkable hash of blue-grey-green. His mouth... he thought of Fleur’s sunny smile with despair. 

But he was young and athletic and had the spark of intelligence in his eyes — those are attributes that lend beauty to even the homeliest of people.

Mycroft sat at the bar, ordered a club soda, then turned on his stool and looked around. Almost immediately several men tried to catch his eye. He locked eyes with a dark-haired fellow with a working man’s mien. He came and sat beside Mycroft and he saw the thick callouses on the man’s hands. He ran his fingers over the man’s knuckles, shivering at the sensation.

“Where can we go for something quick?” He asked in Flemish.

“Downstairs — there are facilities.” 

“Let’s go.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Mycroft saw a dungeon through an open door. He could hear the crack of a whip and panting cries. He hesitated.

“Farther.” His companion laughed. “There are other facilities.”

Nervously, Mycroft continued deeper into the basement. He passed a big bed where a leather-clad twosome were enthusiastically buggering a naked twink. Three other men looked on, their cocks in their hands.

“Don’t worry.” The other man urged. “There is a more private place.”

Beyond the bed was a men’s room with no door, two men stood close together at a urinal. Next there were a series of booths. The doors of several were closed and Mycroft could hear moaning and other sounds. His friend led him to an empty stall — there was nothing inside, not even a bench, just hooks for clothing — and indicated that Mycroft should join him. He hung his overcoat on a hook.

“You look familiar.” The man said.

Mycroft’s heart sank — he’d forgotten that his races were widely broadcast in Belgium. As a winning racer, he was recognisable.

“Do I?” He asked. Mycroft closed the door of the stall and cupped the man’s package feeling it grow and harden under his hand. 

It had been _so_ long!

Then they were kissing fiercely and Mycroft tried not to think about racing or Mummy or Sherlock and especially not Lestrade.

—

The euphoria of orgasm, of touch and of another man praising his long, skeletal body, worshipping his cock, lasted until Mycroft returned to the hotel. In the mirrored lift he saw that he had come on his trouser leg, stubble burn around his mouth and he stank of smoke, beer and sex. 

He had to be up in a few hours, ready for breakfast and a training ride, then a quick shower and the long drive back to Holmescroft. 

Sherlock’s breathing was deep and even when Mycroft snuck into the room. He went directly to the loo, stripped off and showered, washing the stench from his hair, the man’s hands and mouth from his skin.

What could he do with the clothes he’d worn? His overcoat!? Anthea did all his laundry — she would smell the evidence. She knew what clothing Mycroft had with him — hiding these from her, if he even could, would call more attention to them. She would be in his hotel room whilst he trained, bringing clean clothes and corralling Sherlock’s possessions. 

And she would see the evidence of his indiscretion on his body when she massaged his legs — there was stubble burn on his thighs and a bruise in the shape of the bite the man had given him as he came.

Mycroft felt panicky. It had been a stupid, thoughtless decision, sneaking off in the middle of the night for a blowie from a stranger. When Mummy found out he would be on his own, cut off from his family and support system — Father, Uncle Rudy, his mechanics, Anthea, the bus, all the equipment... Jesus, his bikes!

_His brother._

The guilty regret was a millstone around his neck.

He rolled up the trousers, shirt and waistcoat and buried them in the bottom of his duffel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your encouragement — all your comments are appreciated.
> 
> ****
> 
> *Currently, the top American elite male racing cyclocross in Europe routinely finishes in the mid-twenties in these races and is staged in the third row. In the elite women, however, several American women feature, most notably Katie Compton (or Katie Fucking Compton!) who has been front row for fifteen years and has won numerous prestigious races. Now, at 40, she continues to animate races and have podium finishes. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katie_Compton
> 
> **Endurance athletes like cyclists have to eat an enormous amount to maintain health, energy and recovery — yet still keep their weight under strict control, a balancing act that favours some foods over others. At my peak, when I was training 21 hours a week (in addition to a full-time job and a marriage) I would actually get sick of eating — something I never thought possible. I had to force myself to fuel appropriately — it’s a common phenomenon. I was also solid muscle, could easily ride 100 miles in slightly more than four hours and then go grocery shopping and do the laundry. It was GLORIOUS! But I still don’t want to eat another bite of pasta for the rest of my life. And pros — some of them get pasta along with their breakfast. Horrible!
> 
> ***This is a real place! And the online photos show the dungeon and a bed and etc. I made up the floor plan... but _Bar Crisco_!? You can’t make that shit up.


	4. NOMMAY-PAYS DE MONTBÉLIARD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft goes home to Britain to race, whilst Greg stays in Belgium to heal. They meet again in France for the next World Cup race.

The course in Nommay was a power course, mostly flat, fast, not very technical. There was only one, maybe two places the elite men would have to get off their bikes and the rest could be ridden at speed. Bottlenecks could be a problem, but Mycroft thought there was little to cause separation. This kind of course favoured the strongest rider, not the smartest or the most skilful. 

“The roadies will love this one.” Sherlock grumbled. He was right, this kind of course brought the road racers out of the woodwork — they had power and endurance for days but staggeringly sloppy technique — that could take out the riders around them. They were blunt objects.

“Complaining won’t change it.” Mycroft told him.

“I like it.” Lestrade offered.

Sherlock scoffed. “Because you’ve won the past four years.”

“There is that.” He chuckled. “And look on the bright side, we probably won’t have to change bikes for the whole race. I love bored mechanics.”

It was half seven in the morning and the three of them were scouting the course, Uncle Rudy and Lestrade’s coach (six-time World Champion, Boy Hermans had dominated Cyclocross in the early 1990s) rode with them, deep in conversation about the best strategy for the off camber.

“This course is good timing for you. Fortuitous.” Mycroft murmured.

Lestrade grunted. He was fluid on the bike until forced to dismount, then — even two weeks after the injury — he looked stiff to Mycroft. He’d raced with cracked ribs in the past himself, he knew what it felt like. And for how long.

“You won’t feel it once the race starts.” 

“No.” Lestrade agreed. “But you cross that finish line and the first breath explodes with pain.”

“Man up, Lestrade.” Mycroft said dryly, but with a small, warm smile. “No crying in cyclocross.”

“I’ve seen men cry.”

“Disgraceful.”

The cobblestones, Mycroft thought, the uneven, eight hundred year old stone road that made up 100 metres of the course, would make Lestrade’s rib unhappy. But as they navigated it, looking for the smoothest lines, the man showed no sign if it did. 

They swung round and saw the planks — they were tall. Much taller than the usual 12 inches — these were at least 18 inches, as tall as they were allowed to be, Mycroft suspected. He exchanged a glance with Sherlock and as they approached the hurdles they dismounted in perfect unison, picked up their bikes as they ran and leapt over first one barrier then the second, set down their bikes, still running and leapt back upon them.

Lestrade bunny hopped his bike over the hurdles with startling ease. “You don’t think you can ride them?” He asked.

“Clearly it’s possible.” Mycroft told him — though he couldn’t get as much height hopping the bike as Lestrade’s fast-twitch muscle* allowed, riding over them was well within his skill set. “But if everyone around you is running...”

“You don’t want to get jammed up.”

“No.” He suspected a majority of the men’s elite field would opt to run these hurdles. Racers who could successfully ride them would have a small but distinct advantage. Mycroft thought Lestrade would take that advantage as long as his rib allowed.

On the Thursday after Kortrik, Lestrade had texted Mycroft — a completely unexpected event as he hadn’t given Lestrade his number.

Mycroft was on a training ride — he had five hours tempo — and hadn’t seen the texts until afterwards, until he was sitting in the kitchen at Holmscroft in smelly kit eating a recovery meal and drinking one of Anthea’s special smoothies. He’d pulled out the phone — it was wrapped in a Zip-loc with his ID and some cash. It had gotten buried under Mycroft’s wadded-up wind jacket when he’d gotten too warm and stuffed it in one of the spandex pockets on the back of his jersey. 

He saw through the Zip-loc that he had a text — probably Mummy or Uncle Rudy, he thought. Mycroft took off his winter cycling boots (the cleats damaged the wooden floors) and carried them to his room, tossing the Zip-loc onto his bed. He stripped off the layers of spandex and wool, all the technical fabrics made to be thin, flexible and aerodynamic but also warm, stuffing them into the hamper.

(The same hamper in which he’d hidden the clothes he’d worn for his tawdry liaison in Kortrik after cleaning off the DNA evidence in the loo sink. Thus far Anthea had not mentioned them — the very thought put a sick pit of dread in Mycroft’s stomach.)

When he was down to his bib shorts, he began stretching, going through his routine: quads, hamstrings, adductors, calves, piriformis, glutes, back, neck — two sets of 30 seconds on each muscle. He pulled out the foam roller and loosened his ITBs. Mycroft was as meticulous with stretching as he was with training, diet, rest...

After showering, he pulled on a soft, warm shirt and trousers and lay down with his legs elevated. He felt pretty good — 220 kilometres in five hours was well within his stamina and endurance. He had off-road intervals and skills practice on Friday and a light four-hour ride on Saturday to prepare for Sunday’s race outside Manchester.

The Manchester race was one of the HSBC UK | Cyclo-Cross National Trophy Series — a British series, not affiliated with either the World Cup or DVV series. It was well-run and they paid Mycroft a handsome fee simply to show up and race, on top of any prize money he might win. He had been going to this event since before he was old enough to race, watching his Uncle Rudy compete. He’d raced it himself every year since he was ten years old. Mycroft was happy to have it on his schedule.

On the verge of kip, Mycroft remembered the texts. Balance of probability suggested it was Mummy chastising him for riding outdoors in the cold rather than on the turbo trainer set up next to his weights in the solarium. Anyone who’d ever spend five hours on a turbo knew exactly why Mycroft chose the cold — and he raced _cyclocross_ for God’s sake, he was used to riding in all weather — but Mummy was not convinced. Best get it over with.

He fished his phone from the Zip-loc and thumbed it on. 

|| UNKNOWN || 11:36 a.m.  
 _Hey Slim, I hope you don’t mind, I forced Thijs to give me your number — don’t blame him, I’m camping in his spare room so he didn’t have much choice. This cling film bandage is weird and pretty amazing — I’ve never had so little trouble with road rash. I googled it and have been introduced to the concept of ‘wound fluid’. So... thanks for that. But really, thanks for forcing it on me — I owe you. Might even feel a little guilty when I beat you next Sunday. ;)_

|| UNKNOWN || 11:45 a.m.  
 _this is Greg btw_

Mycroft discovered that he was smiling and quickly blanked his features — then remembering that no one could see him, he laid back on his bed and allowed himself an unguarded moment. The smile felt odd on his face.

|| THE ICEMAN || 3:12 p.m.  
 _You are more than welcome for the Tegaderm — although I cannot allow you to beat me and prove my brother correct. He’s insufferable enough already. Why are you sleeping in Vanthourenhout’s spare room?_

|| GREG LESTRADE || 3:36 p.m.  
 _I’ve known Thijs since we were eleven and raced against each other in the kiddie exhibitions — he’s a mate. And since I broke up with Fleur, I needed somewhere to sleep until I can find another flat._

Mycroft wasn’t certain how to feel. He thought it was better for Greg to end the relationship with Fleur, thought he’d be better off in the long run... but he couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible. It could not be easy to upend one’s life during the ’cross season — having to find housing and move abruptly. Being distracted by _sentiment_ would not help Lestrade’s racing.

He hoped his friend would not come to blame Sherlock. Or Mycroft himself.

|| THE ICEMAN || 3:43 p.m.  
 _Sherlock will be truly insufferable now._

|| GREG LESTRADE || 3:44 p.m.  
 _LOL_  
 _I knew you’d understand._

They’d continued to text over the next several days — enough that Mycroft had to silence his phone lest Mummy catch on. 

|| GREG LESTRADE || 12:46 p.m.  
 _I’ve found a YouTube channel that’s broadcasting your English race live. I’ll be watching._

|| THE ICEMAN || 12:49 p.m.  
 _Have you nothing better to do with your time? Aren’t you looking for a place to live? Don’t you have a photo shoot for Velo News or Cycling Weekly?_

|| GREG LESTRADE || 12:53 p.m.  
 _Shut it, I’m not in Velo News at all this month._

|| THE ICEMAN || 12:57 p.m.  
 _Peloton Mag?_

|| GREG LESTRADE || 12:53 p.m.  
 _NO!_

|| THE ICEMAN || 12:57 p.m.  
 _This cannot stand! I’m calling your agent!_

|| GREG LESTRADE || 1:00 p.m.  
 _The women’s race is starting. I have no more time for your nonsense._  
 _Go get ready_

|| THE ICEMAN || 1:01 p.m.  
 _Yes, Father._

And then later...

|| GREG LESTRADE || 3:10 p.m.  
 _Stonking race! Good show, Slim! That Watson character gave you a little trouble — he’s a comer. Tell me, is it boring off the front alone for four laps?_

|| THE ICEMAN || 6:12 p.m.  
 _You should know. I read in Velo News that you’ve been riding away from races for years._

|| GREG LESTRADE || 6:16 p.m.  
 _Not this year. ;)_

|| THE ICEMAN || 6:17 p.m.  
 _Not yet._

|| GREG LESTRADE || 6:18 p.m.  
 _I can’t ride away from your pretty face, can I._

|| THE ICEMAN || 6:24 p.m.  
 _Yes, that is how I earned the sobriquet ‘Iceman,’ my great beauty._

|| GREG LESTRADE || 6:25 p.m.  
 _Eye of the beholder, twat._  
 _you look so sexy in that British Champion’s jersey_

|| THE ICEMAN ||  
 _Fuck off._

They texted whilst Mycroft rode on the Holmes bus to the house outside Antwerp in Belgium — Mummy and Uncle Rudy’s family home, Mycroft’s base during the cross season — and all week after that. Mycroft kept expecting to grow bored with the inanity. After all, why should he care if Lestrade was having a tough time of it since breaking up with Fleur? It was hardly Mycroft’s job to distract him, cheer him.

But they continued. Throughout the long drive ride to Nommay — split over two days, Friday afternoon and Saturday morning — Lestrade had texted, complaining that it was taking Mycroft too long to arrive.

They arranged to meet on the bike ride Mycroft took to open up his legs after sitting in the bus for hours. It was... _wonderful_ to see Greg again. And strange. Mycroft was nervous, afraid Lestrade would be disappointed when he saw him. Worried he’d think he’d been wasting his time texting.

But Lestrade did not appear disappointed. His grin lit his face when he caught sight of Mycroft. And Mycroft himself had difficulty confining his own smile to a pleasant yet reserved expression. It wanted to break out and shine forth, catching Lestrade in its spotlight.

Sherlock was with him on the ride, of course, and he too was delighted to see Lestrade again, peppering him with questions. Lestrade seemed content to speak mostly with Sherlock, but he glanced towards Mycroft often, as if assuring himself he was still there. 

At fourteen, Sherlock’s ride was shorter. They saw him back to the hotel then rode off together. For a few hours, there was no one else in the world but the two of them and their bikes.

“Your injuries aren’t bothering you.” Mycroft observed.

“The rib isn’t great, but I don’t feel it much on the bike.” Lestrade told him. 

“Off the bike?”

“Oh, it’s a motherfucker.” Lestrade laughed, wincing.

They rode to the race course before the light faded, but their reconnoitre was limited to watching part of an amateur race.

“I kinda love these races.” Greg told him. “These people... they really love racing. Love bikes. They aren’t being paid. They have no particular talent. But they put in hours training every day, learning skills — not like we did, because we knew from an early age that we could be very good — but simply because they love it.” He gestured at the racers labouring on the course. “These guys — what’s the field? Forty plus? They’re twice our age, they have jobs and families... they have to carve out time for this.” He smiled at the race. “I want to be as pure. I want to love my bike for the joy of it — not the paycheque.”

“No-one rides for the paycheque.” Mycroft murmured. “It’s too much work. It’s not a job, it’s a whole life. If it’s not built on joy... it collapses.”

Lestrade huffed softly. “Too little joy lately. Maybe it was Fleur — she wanted... I think she wanted to be my joy. I can’t blame her for that.”

“You miss her, of course.”

“I do, I guess. But mostly I’m just... relieved. And I feel like a shit for feeling that way.”

Mycroft turned to the other man. Lestrade’s silver helmet glowed in the setting sun, his face obscured by the back lighting. He reached out and touched the bars of Lestrade’s bicycle, the slick carbon fibre and the spongey white bar tape. His fingers moved up to one of the levers and caressed its curve. He let his hand drop and turned back to the race, conscious of Greg’s eyes upon him. “You’re already married — just like I am. The bike is greedy, she demands a faithful spouse. She takes and takes and takes until she takes it all. But she makes me happy.”

Lestrade was quiet for a while. They watched a minor pile-up, wincing at the sound of carbon fibre snapping. “Thijs’s wife, she’s an elite racer too. Maybe that’s the answer, Slim — you have to have a partner who knows how much it takes. Really knows.”

“Perhaps.”

“Have you tried it, My? Tried having a boyfriend? A normal relationship?”

Mycroft’s laugh was bitter. “Don’t tell me you want to fix me up with your cousin.” He deflected.

“I’m serious. Have you? Did he understand? Or was he jealous of your other life?”

“I believe you know how my family feels about my orientation.”

“Well ... they might not like it, but they can’t _stop_ you.”

Mycroft scoffed. “It has been made exceedingly clear that if I choose to pursue a relationship with another man, I will lose... everything.”

“That’s...!” Lestrade paused and swallowed his first reaction. “Mycroft... are you sure? They’re _here_ with you — they’ve made your career their life. They love and care for you very much.”

“Not enough.” Mycroft hated how bitter he sounded. “Were they to find me with a man again, they would disown me. I would lose my home, they would take my coach and soignuer with them, the mechanics ... along with a significant chunk of my income.” His trust fund — Mycroft would forfeit his trust fund. Lestrade made an aggrieved sound. “I could probably deal with all of that if... if he were...” Mycroft broke off, unable to express something on which he’d never allowed himself to dwell. “But they’d make certain I would not see Sherlock again — not until he came of age, at least. Forever if they could... if they could turn him against me.”

“Oh no.”

“As insufferable as he is, it would break my heart to lose him.” Mycroft felt so incredibly guilty about the assignation in Kortrik, how could he have risked so much for so little!?

“My cousin’s parents didn’t take it well at first either. It took some time, but they came around — now you’d never know there was a problem. I’ll bet when it comes right down to it — and someday, Slim, it will — they won’t have the heart to lose you.”

“That is a nice fantasy.” Mycroft replied. “But you do not know my mother. It’s getting late, I have to go back.” He picked up his bike and jogged three steps then leapt upon it, a perfect cyclocross mount, and turned in the direction of the hotel. 

Mummy had been watching for him. She waylaid Mycroft in the lobby, smiling at Lestrade like a hungry cat. 

“There you are, darling, I was getting worried.”

“Apologies, Mummy. We were taking a look at the course.” Mycroft told her. “Time got away from me.” He pressed the button for the lift, keeping his bike out of the way of the doors to accommodate anyone who might want to exit.

“Dinner in twenty minutes. Will you join us, Monsieur Lestrade? We’ll be in the restaurant next door.”

“Oh, Greg, please.” Lestrade smiled — Mycroft saw the strain in it, saw how stiffly he held his torso and arms. He knew Mummy must detect it. “I’m meeting my coach now, Madame Holmes.” He said apologetically.

“Bring him if you like. You and Mycroft are in each other’s pockets lately —"

“Mummy, please.” The lift bonged and the doors opened. Mycroft wheeled his bike into the compartment, lifting the front end up to rest the wheel against the wall, making more room for Lestrade and his bicycle.

“I’m just saying it’s nice, Mycroft. We could all get to know each other better.”

“You know what?” Lestrade said. “I’d love to join you. Thank you for the invitation.” Mycroft looked up in surprise, seeing the tight smile on the other man’s face.

“Oh good!”

“Next door? I’ll see you there.” Lestrade held the door as Mummy and Mycroft got off on their floor. Mycroft snuck a final glance at his friend before the doors closed — his hooded expression hid a well of anger that worried Mycroft. 

“What are you doing, Mummy?” He asked, tired and tense. “We never entertain guests before a race.”

“He’s hardly a guest.” Mummy demurred. “He’s racing tomorrow too, he’ll want an early night. Honestly, I think he’s a good influence — Sherlock is quite taken with him. A man like that...”

Ah. _A man like that..._ heterosexual and thoroughly masculine with a beautiful girlfriend. It made him safe to be around Mycroft and a better role model for young Sherlock than his deviant brother... “I’m glad he meets with your approval.” He said drily and took his bike into his room.

As it turned out, Uncle Rudy knew Greg’s coach, Boy Hermans, from when he had raced fifteen years ago. And Hermans, in turn, had known Mummy and Uncle Rudy’s father the great Roman Garin — from whom Mycroft and Sherlock had inherited their physiology.**

A small, gnome like man, Boy Hermans was almost as charismatic as Lestrade. He hadn’t grown up speaking French and English as most Flemish did these days, but Mycroft and Sherlock had learned Flemish at their Belgian mother’s knee and were interested to hear about their grandfather from a man who knew him. Sherlock was especially taken with the stories of the flamboyant cyclist.

“I didn’t realise you’re related to Garin.” Lestrade said.

“We never met him.”

“Tragedy that.”

Mycroft scoffed — softly so as not to draw attention. “He died of dehydration on Mount Ventoux in the bloody Tour de France because he used a mixture of amphetamines and alcohol as a diuretic. My grandfather was, I understand, not a stupid man, yet he died a ridiculous, unnecessary death.”***

“You’re hard on him.”

Mycroft shrugged. “We have a memorial plaque on top of a barren mountain, something about which the commentators can natter every time Ventoux is in le Tour. Am I selfish to want more?”

Lestrade smiled at him quizzically. “You’re angry with him.”

“I know you believe I have better things about which to be angry.”

“My... I’m not judging you. I wouldn’t, I hope you know that.” Lestrade told him. “I want you to be happy.”

Glancing around the table, Mycroft once again felt his own foolish, petty sentimentality. “Winning makes me happy.”

The race was fast — breakneck — with a group of roughly nine in the front for lap after lap, groups breaking up and re-forming. Thijs Vanthourenhout had three of his orange men in the group working for him, taking turns on the front, keeping the pace high.

Mycroft had a good start, arcing into the first corner so close to Vanthourenhout they leaned together from shoulder to elbow. It was the sort of contact that happens during races — one keeps a calm head and expects the other rider to do the same. At their level it rarely ended up in a crash. 

Vanthourenhout ceded the front to Mycroft and he sped through the course — up the flyover, into the sand for a 180 that required all riders to dismount and run, there simply wasn’t enough traction to ride fast enough. Back on hard ground, Mycroft jumped on his bike and attacked, gunning it into the pinwheel — a series of circles growing ever smaller until one reached the centre and reversed direction to ride the spiral outwards. Vanthourenhout stayed on his wheel, other riders having to get around Vanthourenhout’s blocking orange men to chase them. They swooped into the trees for a series of short fast climbs and descents, zig-zagging across the hillside. A long power section took them through a field towards the bouncy house and food stalls that were a feature of every ‘cross race to which Mycroft had ever been. Vanthourenhout passed Mycroft in the field, thus he was first to ride onto the wheel-destroying cobblestones, first to run the 18 inch hurdles and circle back into the trees for a treacherous off-camber. They both rode it flawlessly. There were more steep little hills, more sweeping corners and a ditch to jump, then they flew onto the start/finish to cross the line for the first time.

As often happened on the wide pavement of the start/finish, the group came back together, reshuffling. New riders took control and sprinted to the front of the group and Mycroft was happy to let them — he wanted to hang back for a few laps. Mycroft rode into the corner eighth in line.

He bided his time, let Vanthourenhout send his men to the front. A number of riders could keep this pace for two or three or even six laps. But eventually they’d tire and drop off, or make a mistake and get gapped, or get caught behind someone else’s mistake. Mycroft simply needed to stay with the front group and let these racers wear themselves out. 

He almost went down when the racer directly in front of him slid out on a corner, but he managed to brake and steer around the downed bike and then gun it back up to the three who had not been held up. The third lap, he found himself behind Vanthourenhout’s teammate Vermeersch who always dismounted goofy side — it surprised Mycroft and he stepped wrong, rolling his ankle. It hurt the first few steps afterwards, but by the time he’d leapt back upon his bike, he’d forgotten about it. 

In the pinwheel, Mycroft could see how spread out the racers were becoming. He caught sight of Lestrade leading the first chase group and wondered very briefly what had held him up. 

They zig-zagged and then flew across the field, five in the front now with two more dangling and Lestrade closing fast. Mycroft jittered over the rough cobbles — the bigger riders might have an easier time on them, but it was all technique and power. Mycroft had never gone down on cobblestones, and had never been dropped. The trick was to remember that the stretch was finite and to simply kill yourself for the duration. If it’s hard for you, it’s hard for everyone, so go full-on and hurt them as badly as you can. 

On the cobbles, Mycroft improved his position in the group and was fourth over the tall planks. He jumped them on his bike, of course, whilst most of the riders around him ran. Not having to remount and clip back into his pedals gave him enough advantage to pass another racer.

Vanthourenhout attacked out of the off-camber and Vermeersch blocked Mycroft and everyone behind through the trees and over the ditch. In the start/finish, Mycroft sprinted around Vermeersch and began chasing in earnest. By the time he got to the pinwheel, he was reeling Vanthourenhout in and had dropped all but one other rider. 

Mycroft used the power section to close the gap and attacked on the cobblestones. He bunny-hopped the hurdles alone! But Vanthourenhout and Wurst, the other racer, caught him in the start-finish. 

They began lap five looking at each other. Mycroft wanted to force one of the others to take the lead this lap. Vanthourenhout was too wily, thus Wurst took over. They rode his wheel the whole lap. 

Lestrade caught on in the start/finish for lap six. Wurst was having a good day, he stayed with them until Lestrade attacked the zig-zags in lap seven. Mycroft and Vanthourenhout were ready for him, Wurst, alas, was not. 

The three of them rode together for two laps — each attacking, hitting out, but unable to drop the others. They got the bell for the last lap and Mycroft despaired — he did not want to sprint against Lestrade again, the man was too good!

Shockingly, Vanthourenhout stumbled in the sand! Mycroft ran over him, but Lestrade had gotten a small gap! He chased through the pinwheel, Lestrade agonisingly far ahead — Mycroft counted under his breath from when Lestrade reached the centre of the spiral and reversed direction until Mycroft himself got to that same point. 

Eight seconds!

Mycroft chased up and down the zig-zags, not losing ground, but not gaining either. He sprinted up to speed on the long power sector — maybe he was getting closer? He couldn’t tell. They ripped onto the cobblestones and Mycroft gave it everything as he jittered and jarred over the uneven surface and somehow! Somehow! He caught Lestrade!

It must be the rib! Lestrade had the physique for the cobblestones — big and powerful. But the uneven, unyielding surface must be hurting him badly.

Mycroft flew around towards the extra-tall planks. He’d ridden them some laps and run them others. But side-by-side with Lestrade, he _had to_ ride them, regardless if Lestrade did or not.

Lestrade chose to dismount and run — a testament to the pain and exhaustion he must be feeling. Mycroft attacked as soon as he was over and opened a small gap as he flew into the off-camber, out the other side to circle back into the sweeping turns through the trees — he imagined he could hear Lestrade panting, feel his hot breath on his neck. And maybe he could! Mycroft jumped the ditch and came ’round to the pavement of the finishing straight. He powered towards the line, certain that Lestrade would come around him any second!

But he didn’t!

Mycroft crossed the line in first place!!

He raised his arms in victory and pumped his fist, adrenaline singing in his veins. _He had won!_

Circling around he saw Lestrade had just finished behind him, Thijs Vanthourenhout another five seconds back looking cross.

But Lestrade wasn’t well. He stopped and someone grabbed his bike — but he couldn’t dismount. He stood panting, head bowed, arms wrapped around himself, still straddling his bike. 

Mycroft rode over, handed his bike off and leaned close to Lestrade. He put his arm around the stockier man’s shoulders and spoke gently into his ear. “Hey, no crying in cyclocross.”

Greg leaned into Mycroft, panting huskily. “Don’t... don’t make me laugh, Slim.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Good race. Well fought.”

“Until I bloody fell apart.”

“You did do.”

Lestrade laughed weakly. “Don’t... it hurts...” He huffed.

Boy Hermans materialised, immediately assessed the situation, and carefully lowered Lestrade’s bike, laying it on the ground so Mycroft could help him step over it. Trailed by their chaperones, they walked together to the trailer set aside for the top three to prepare for the podium, Lestrade leaning on Mycroft, letting him guide them inside and deposit him in a chair. When Lestrade was seated more or less comfortably, Hermans took over and Uncle Rudy pulled Mycroft away. 

“He ok?” Vanthourenhout asked Mycroft as he sat down beside him and unbuckled his helmet.

“It’s nothing that won’t heal.” Mycroft answered, taking the recovery drink that Father held out. “Allow me to tender my apologies, Thijs, I believe I may have stepped on you back in the sand.”

Vanthourenhout laughed. “Always so formal, Holmes. You did step on me, but I would have done the same. I _have_ done the same.”

“As long as there are no hard feelings.”

“Only at myself. Lost the thing right there.” Vanthourenhout groused. “But you — good showing, Holmes.”

“Thank you. I benefited from your misfortune today — and Lestrade’s.” Mycroft chuckled. “Good practice for when I go into politics.”

Vanthourenhout laughed. “Don’t do it, Holmes. The world is messed up enough.”

 _That’s exactly why I should._

As he cleaned up and changed for the podium, Mycroft saw Uncle Rudy talking animatedly with Boy Hermans. He tried to lip-read, but was taken through to a brightly-lit tent for the interviews.

“Mycroft, congratulations on a stunning win. How did you feel out there today?”

“I felt acceptable. It was a fast course more suited to power riders like Lestrade and Vanthourenhout. Both of them are very strong. 

“How did you beat them?”

“I’ve been working on my accelerations in training. I’m satisfied with my progress — I think you can see the improvement.”

“You can out sprint Greg Lestrade now?”

Mycroft chuckled, giving the camera a rare smile. “Goodness, no! I never want to sprint to the line with Lestrade. I won today because I made fewer mistakes.”

“Thank you! Congratulations on your victory.” The journalist said and Mycroft was moved several feet to sit in front of a different camera to repeat the interview in Flemish and then in French.

Lestrade looked haggard on the podium. Mycroft nudged him as Vanthourenhout was given his prizes and bouquet. “You look pretty rough.”

“I’m alright.” Lestrade said.

“Liar.”

And then Lestrade was being given cheek kisses, an ugly plaque and flowers. 

Mycroft was awarded a trophy instead of a plaque. He was obliged to cheek kiss the man giving him the thing and the woman handing out the bouquets — he preferred handshakes, but France will insist on being France.

Vanthourenhout and Lestrade stepped up onto the top step with Mycroft and they all wrapped their arms around one another and posed for the photographers, holding their flowers aloft. Both Lestrade and Vanthourenhout were big men — big units, as the commentators would say. It was easy to forget how very lean they were. None of them had more than two percent body fat, their bodies simply built muscle differently than Mycroft’s. Both of them were an inch or so shorter than he, but both outweighed him by not insignificant amounts.

But right then, Lestrade felt frail under Mycroft’s arm. He did not like it.

When the photographers finished, Lestrade threw his bouquet into the crowd, wincing a little at the motion.

Vanthourenhout’s entire family — wife, parents, siblings — engulfed him as they exited, trapping Mycroft and Lestrade on the stairs. He could see Mummy and Sherlock on the far side, waving.

“This is when I really miss Fleur.” Lestrade mumbled. “It’s nice to have someone waiting.”

“I’ll lend you Mummy if you’re desperate.”

Lestrade chuckled. “I’m a little afraid of your mother, to be honest.”

“That is wise. She’s the most frightening person you’ll ever meet.” Mycroft said. Lestrade might take that to be a joke, but he was quite serious. “I must admit to some relief that she’s returning to Britain with Sherlock tonight.”

“Mm. You’ll be in Antwerp?”

“Just outside, near Schoten”

“Maybe we can ride together this week.”

Mycroft turned and looked at Lestrade — the soft, brown eyes regarded him with just a hint of wariness. Mycroft smiled and watched the wariness disappear. “You expect me to drag your injured arse all over Belgium?”

Lestrade giggled — actually giggled! He clutched his sides. “Fuck! Sod it, Slim, don’t make me laugh!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are all real races, and the descriptions come from watching and my own racing, but the races described doesn’t necessarily match the course named. Does that make sense? 
> 
> Anyway, to those who are following this fic, thanks for all your comments! I’m glad you’re enjoying it. There are a number of ups and downs coming for our friends.
> 
> ******
> 
> *There are two kinds of muscle, fast-twitch and slow-twitch. People with a lot of fast-twitch are very good at sprinting and leaping — going very fast for a short time. Slow-twitch is endurance muscle — going at a steady clip for a long time, ie distance runners. Fast-twitch can be converted to slow-twitch — which is how pro cyclists who specialise in sprinting can build the endurance to complete a three-week stage race like the Tour de France — but slow-twitch cannot be converted to fast-twitch. Thus, as an athlete ages, that top-end speed leaves them.
> 
> Greg Lestrade and Thijs Vanthourenhout have more fast-twitch muscle fibre, and Mycroft more slow-twitch.
> 
> **The body’s power system is, like male pattern balding, inherited through the maternal line. Thus, Uncle Rudy had not inherited his father’s prodigious talents, but Mummy’s children had.
> 
> ***This is how British cyclist Tom Simpson died in 1967. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Simpson


	5. SCHOTEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg get closer.

The house in Schoten had been Roman Garin’s. 

It was a large, red-brick, Flemish style pile in which Garin’s widow — after Roman’s shocking death during Stage 13 of the 1974 Tour de France — had raised their two children. 

When Mycroft was very young, Mummy told him that she’d always thought the house could be beautiful — it had good bones. (Mycroft had spent the week after trying to find the skeleton in Holmscroft.) Thus, after her mother’s death, Mummy — with funds from her wealthy English husband — renovated the old house extensively, gutting, rearchitecting and reconfiguring all three floors and the basement, combining small rooms into larger spaces, installing three new toilets and rehabbing the single loo that had until then served the entire household and building a contemporary solarium, a big glass square jutting from the side of the house. The result gave Mycroft the third floor, the peaked attic, with his own en suite loo.

The old barn that Roman had used for his bicycles, she had made into a handsome guesthouse, complete with a cabinet kitchen and en suite.

Bright, sunny Garin House, with the white walls and simple furniture, was where Uncle Rudy lived year-round and was Mycroft’s base during cyclocross season, and Mummy, Father and Sherlock were frequently in residence as well. Huge, stuffy Holmescroft might be Mycroft’s _home_ , but Garin House made him feel light and free.

On the bus ride from Nommay to Schoten, as Anthea drowsed and Anderson drove, Uncle Rudy sat down next to Mycroft. 

“Good race today.” He said. “You were smart to sit in so long.”

“Vanthourenhout has a strong team. I don’t believe I could have gotten away earlier.”

“Risky sitting behind his orange men.”

Mycroft smirked. “I knew I could bridge if they held me up.”

Uncle Rudy smiled just a touch wistfully. “That you could.” He shifted and Mycroft understood he was ready to get to his point. “I was talking to your mother about your friend Lestrade.”

The back of Mycroft’s neck prickled at the mention of the other racer’s name. “Yes.” He said warily.

“His coach mentioned he was looking for a place to stay.”

“Oh?”

“He’s brilliant, you know. Your mother wants to help if she can, she thought we could offer him the old barn — just for the season, so he can keep his focus where it should be, on the racing.”

“That’s... very generous.”

“If you’re not keen, Mycroft, it won’t happen — you are our priority.”

“Oh... I don’t see that it would be a problem. If he doesn’t mind being out of the city.”

“I’ll mention it to his coach then.”

“Yes, alright.”

“You might want to pick his brain — he’s done a fair bit of road racing... a fair bit of winning… we need to start looking around at the pro teams, find a good fit for you.”

 _Finally!_ Mycroft had been lobbying for Uncle Rudy to talk to the pro teams on his behalf since he graduated from the Junior field. “If you say so.”

“You’re ready, Mycroft.”

He glowed with the praise. Mycroft had worked so hard and so long! “Have you spoken to anyone as of yet?”

“One or two people — asking after the culture of the teams. A good fit is important.”

“Mm, well, not the orange men, I think.”

Uncle Rudy scoffed. “Not the Dutch, my boy, never the Dutch! And it would be criminal for you to play second fiddle to Vanthourenhout — and I don’t see him agreeing to work for you, not for a few more years anyway. No, you’re ready for a pro tour team — there’s been definite interest since you’ve been beating Lestrade. I’m compiling your power data... what do you think about a stagiaire contract for Spring?* You could be racing the Ardennes Classics next year!”

“The Ardennes...!”** Mycroft rarely spoke about this long-held ambition, winning one of the incredibly difficult, one day races in the Ardennes region, races that featured long, steep uphill finishes. They would suit his talents down to the ground — his grandfather had won the ‘triple,’ all three of the vaunted races. “What teams?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Uncle Rudy laughed. “However, Lestrade has raced a number of the Spring Classics — you know he won Brabantse Pijl and Amstel Gold! And he was on the podium at Ronde Van Vlaanderen.*** If he’s staying at Garin House, you can go out training with him, maybe. See what it takes to win a classic.”

“Mm.” Mycroft purposely did not mention that he and Lestrade already had plans to train together — he thought it wise to allow Mummy and Uncle Rudy believe it was their idea. “An excellent plan — if he wants the barn.”

“Hermans says he’s pretty desperate. Or Hermans is desperate to get Lestrade off his couch. Maybe both.”

\---

They met up on Tuesday for a long ride along part of the Ronde Van Vlaanderen route. Mycroft had packed his jersey pockets with energy gels, a vegan protein bar and several of Anthea’s rice bars — they could, and likely would, stop for food and to replenish their water, but Mycroft needed to keep to the nutritionist’s schedule. The food weighed very little — he could afford the extra grams.

Lestrade was uncharacteristically sombre as he greeted Mycroft. They did not speak for the first hour, other than to point out hazards on the road.

Mycroft was curious about Greg’s mood, but he let it lie. He would tell Mycroft if it concerned him. One of the things Mycroft loved about cycling was the quiet, the long stretches where pedalling was second nature and he could let his mind wander. If he had a problem, he’d let his mind tug at it whilst he rode and more often than not, he found a resolution.

Perhaps Lestrade was the same. Perhaps he simply had something to work through. 

They traded pulls, not competing but working together across the Belgian countryside. The silence between them was comfortable, companionable. 

When they reached the bottom of the Kwaremont,**** Lestrade pulled up beside Mycroft. “Race you, Slim.” He said, barely waiting for Mycroft’s nod before sprinting away towards the 93 uphill metres of roughly cobbled road. Mycroft chased, catching him on the lower slope. He matched Lestrade’s pace, certain the man was holding back. He thought Lestrade would attack at the steepest part, the 11 percent gradient that shredded the strongest legs.

He did not. Lestrade continued to ride to the left and slightly behind Mycroft, his breath puffing rhythmically. Unwilling to let the opportunity pass, Mycroft attacked — from the front, so he could not, unfortunately, take Lestrade by surprise. He would have to depend upon his more advantageous power-to-weight ratio.

Lestrade matched him. Mycroft did not let up, flogging himself up the hill — watching the road so as not trap his wheel between the medieval paving stones, looking for the smoothest path. 

Lord! It was arduous! Mycroft’s legs and lower back filled with lactic acid, burning and aching as he continued the punishing pace. His lungs begged for oxygen — it was too much! He was going have to stop, put down a foot or fall off his bike... and vomit... 

...but he had begun to outpace Lestrade! 

Mycroft scraped together every bit of strength, mental and physical, every ounce of courage, and extended his lead — one metre... two metres... three! Lestrade stood up on his pedals and Mycroft knew he’d broken him! A big rider like Lestrade, standing to climb was much less efficient — less power transferred from rider to bicycle — than spinning the pedals whilst seated.

As he reached the top, Mycroft surged again over the crest into the rolling descent. He made himself as aerodynamic possible, sitting on the top tube, hunching low over his handlebars and pulling his elbows in tightly, shifting his weight into the corners.

The same gravity that had hindered Lestrade up the hill, was an advantage on the downhill. He descended back into Mycroft’s slipstream, then drifted past him, laughing.

“Brilliant!” Lestrade cried, wheezing a bit as he caught his breath. 

“Your rib is still bothering you.” Mycroft observed.

“Not that much.” Lestrade exclaimed. “Have to get you racing on the road!”

Mycroft smiled at his friend. “So I can beat you there too?”

“Prick!”

Laughing, Mycroft sat up, catching the wind with his body, slowing down. Lestrade followed suit.

“So... I hear you have a room to let.”

“Guesthouse — barn actually, but Mummy had it converted. It’s empty. That is to say it’s furnished, but no one has stayed there in a year. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

“This was your idea?”

“Ah, no. It was Mummy’s.”

“What’d I tell you — mothers love me.” Lestrade mugged, but it fell from his features quickly. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Mind? Why ever would I mind?”

“Just checking. Honestly, I was ready to move into team housing. You ever do that?”

“Erm... no.”

“I did. It was brilliant when I was seventeen — living the life with other racers. Nine years later... well... sharing a fridge and a loo with ten other blokes…”

“Come back to the house with me today. You can look at the barn, decide if it’s acceptable. It’s thirty minutes from Antwerp, if that is a consideration. Not much nightlife in the village.”

Lestrade laughed. “My nightlife is in my bed — I try to be asleep by 22:00.” His smile slipped away. “Another thing Fleur wasn’t happy about.”

“It is still fresh” Mycroft empathised. “It hasn’t been much more than a fortnight.”

“I’m alright. More worried about finding someplace to live without interrupting my schedule.” He sighed. “Boy’s been great... and Thijs... if your barn works out, it’s a godsend.”

“I am more than happy to help.”

They cruised a while through the rolling countryside. It was cold enough to make them want to work hard, to keep their core temperature high enough that hands and feet stayed warm. 

“Why haven’t you joined a road team?” Lestrade asked. “You’re good enough, you know.”

“Thank you, it’s kind of you to say so.” Mycroft murmured. “I’ve wanted to... but there’s the small matter of acquiring a contract.”

“Your agent can’t get you anything? That’s crazy.”

“I don’t have an agent.” Mycroft told him. “Uncle Rudy has acted for me.”

“That’s —" Lestrade closed his mouth. He frowned for a moment and Mycroft could almost see the gears turning in his skull. “That’s an unusual arrangement.” He said carefully.

“Greg, you do not have to hold your tongue. The offer of the barn is not predicated on perfect agreement with the Holmses.”

“I wasn’t thinking that. Just... didn’t want to offend you.”

Mycroft smiled thinly. “Our friendship is not predicated on avoiding offense either — though I appreciate the impulse.”

“OK... I wonder if it’s the best arrangement. Your family must have your best interests at heart, but are they the best equipped to negotiate a contract?”

Mycroft’s laugh was humourless, more a choke than a chuckle. “I am under no illusions as to Mummy’s motivations. My best interests and _her_ best interests have at times been conflated. Perhaps I am too willing to keep the peace... but she is my mother.” Mycroft tried to wade through the uncomfortable mixture of emotions that roiled inside him. “If I thought my prospects would be harmed, I would not stay quiet.” He hoped that was true.

“I hope not, My.” Lestrade said warmly. “If I can ever help... just say so. Anything I can do.”

“You’re very kind.”

Lestrade scoffed. “Hardly.”

Soon after they came upon a small group of cyclists, several of the orange men and young Watson amongst them — in an Amstel Test Team jersey. He had joined Lestrade’s pro team. Mycroft swallowed down the ridiculous surge of jealousy before he choked.

He and Lestrade rode the rest of the route with them

They reached Garin House roughly an hour before sundown and Mycroft led Lestrade to the barn, stopping briefly to grab the key from the kitchen.

“Oof — might need airing.” Mycroft said as he stepped inside and flicked on the lights.

Lestrade moved to the centre of the room and turned a slow circle, taking in the big, shuttered windows, vaulted ceiling and, along the back wall, a mezzanine overlooking the main room — it couldn’t be called a sleeping loft, as one could stand upright, reach up as high as possible and not come close to touching the ceiling. A double bed was framed by a gothic window. “Jesus! This is... Mycroft... this is... amazing.” 

Mycroft stifled his smirk. “A bit dusty. We can have it cleaned for you.”

“No need... no need. It’s perfect!” He opened the door to the loo and whistled his appreciation. 

“The kitchen, such as it is, is here.” Mycroft opened a large cabinet built in under the mezzanine, revealing a sink, stove, shelving and a half-sized refrigerator. A simple wooden farm table with mismatched chairs placed nearby.

Mycroft leaned against the couch and watched Lestrade open the door to the walk-in clothes closet. 

“There’s bike storage in the basement of the house — lots of room, you’re welcome to use it as well.

“I... I can’t believe this.” Lestrade spun around again. “I keep waiting for the catch.”

Mycroft chuckled. “I’m certain you will discover ample drawbacks.” He opened the shutters on the three metre tall front window, letting in rosy light from the setting sun. When he turned back, Lestrade was gazing at him, an odd look on his handsome face. “What?”

Lestrade shook himself, his intense expression softening into a smile. “Wool gathering.”

“Are you hungry? I’m making something for myself.”

“Thanks, Slim, but I want to get back before it gets too dark.”

“Ah, yes. Take these.” Mycroft said holding out the keys. “If you don’t wish for the place to be cleaned, move in at your convenience.”

“Thanks!” Lestrade chuckled. “It’s cleaner in here than any of the couches I’ve been surfing.” He stopped. “I can move in anytime?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade shook his head in amazement.

—-

The next morning after breakfast, Mycroft went for a run — he ran three days a week, doing foot speed drills and wind sprints. He needed fast feet for cyclocross.

It was grey and misty, the ground sodden from overnight showers. He was not deterred — races were held in all weather, it was wise to train for muddy, wet, snowy and frozen conditions.

He returned to the house after an hour and a quarter, leaving his muddy trainers by the door. He ate a quick second breakfast and changed into cycling kit, layering warm tights over his bib shorts and a long-sleeved jacket over his long-sleeved jersey. He put a few snacks in his pockets, but did not think he would need them. 

He rode his ’cross bike back to the park and practiced skills for three hours, making a circuit straight up hill, off camber switchbacks downhill, serpentine curves through the trees, and a long stretch of sand. He rode it at speed, perfecting his form and balance.

When he arrived home, there was a truck in the drive out by the barn. Mycroft rode over, dismounting at the open door and peering in. “Greg?” At least five bikes were stacked against one wall, a number of extra wheels, a floor pump, rollers, tool box and a bike stand sat amongst several boxes.

There was a rustling from the closet. A man Mycroft had never seen before emerged. He had Greg’s velvet brown eyes and tan complexion, but his dark hair was worn long and his lithe form lacked Greg’s sturdiness. “Oh hello.” He said with a smile almost as dazzling as Greg’s. 

Greg followed him out of the closet. “Mycroft! Come in — you look cold. This is my cousin, Jempey. He’s helping me with the move.”

“Ah, Mycroft, I have heard so much about you.” Jempey’s accent was thicker than Greg’s, and made it clear his first language was French.

“Jempey...? Short for... Jean-Pierre?” Mycroft asked. He was ninety-eight percent certain he was being introduced to Greg’s gay cousin.

“Oui! You _are_ brilliant — Greg has said so.” Jempey clasped Mycroft’s hands. “My parents, they give me such a beautiful name then insist on calling me ‘Jempey.’ I shall never be rid of it.”

“I empathise. You can guess what my mother will insist on calling me.”

Jempey’s eyes flew open in horror. “Oh! Don’t tell me it is _Mike_.” He imbued the nickname with as much loathing as it had always made Mycroft feel.

Mycroft smiled primly. “I think we understand each other, Jean-Pierre.” Greg scoffed good-naturedly. 

“No, you do not get to scoff at me, cousin!” Jempey declared. “I scoff at you! He has nothing.” He told Mycroft. “Only bike things.”

“Yeah, but I have a _lot_ of bike things.” Greg laughed. 

“He has no dishes.” Jempey complained. “No silverware. No linens! He has a pillow, ten bicycles and fifteen pairs of bike shoes.”

“I have dishes.” Greg countered.

“You have a mug. One mug.”

“I bought that package of paper plates.”

“Jésus, Greg…”

A shadow passed over Greg’s face. “I lived with Fleur for almost four years… if I had stuff before that, it was thrown out along the way.”

Jempey’s face told Mycroft exactly what he thought of Fleur. “You could have taken some of what you shared.”

“No, I really couldn’t.”

“Let’s not worry about it.” Mycroft interjected. “There is some crockery in the cupboards and we have plenty of housewares that we can lend to Greg.”

“That’s not necessary, My…”

“No arguments. You won’t have the time during racing season to shop for new things. It’s really no trouble.” 

“Are you certain? You’ve done so much already.” Lestrade gestured at the room around them.

“Isn’t that what friends do for one another?”

“You’re a better friend than I deserve, Slim.”

Mycroft allowed a small smile to curve his lips. “Nonsense. I’m going to bathe and then I’ll come back and help you get settled. Nice to meet you, Jean-Pierre.” With a nod, Mycroft left the barn. 

\---

Both Mycroft and Lestrade were scheduled to race Ethias Cross Beringen on Saturday and another in the World Cup series in Koksijde on Sunday. The Beringen race was low stakes — it was part of the Ethias series, but no one was keeping track of points or time. Each race was a one-off. Lestrade was receiving handsome appearance fees for racing the Ethias series, but Mycroft was not. This was his first season in the Elites, his first breakout season — he might command appearance fees in Britain where the National Champion was always welcome, but ’cross racers are thick on the ground in Belgium. Next year, Mycroft would be reaping the rewards.

Sherlock and Mummy were still in England. They would re-join Mycroft for the Winter Hols when there were cyclocross races almost every day, but in the meantime, Sherlock was back in school and racing within Britain.

Father had come on Thursday and he and Alun had gone over Mycroft’s bikes with fine tooth-combs, gluing new sets of mud tyres onto wheels and rewrapping the bars with fresh bar tape. Anderson brought Anthea and the bus to Schoten on Friday and the four of them packed it full. 

The rain on Wednesday continued throughout the rest of the week and into the weekend. Beringen was wet and cold. The fans huddled in rain ponchos over puffy coats, Dutch orange beanies and black, yellow and red striped hats bobbed under umbrellas.**** Uncle Rudy set up a tent near the bus so Mycroft’s gear wouldn’t become sodden. It also gave him a dry place to warm up on his turbo trainer.

But by the time he was surrendering his jacket and warm gloves to Father at the start line, Mycroft was wet through and beginning to shiver. Lestrade, lined up next to him, kept glancing at him, worried. 

“Stop it.” Mycroft commanded. “I’ll be fine once the race starts.” He would. His core temperature would rise again and the heat he generated would eventually travel to his numb hands and feet.

“You better.” Lestrade growled. “I don’t want this to be too easy.”

Mycroft just scoffed at him. 

Thijs Vanthourenhout was sitting this race out, but several of his orange men filled out the front line, along with Marcel Maier, the German champion, and four or five racers who started in the second row in the bigger races. The cameras lingered on each of them, wet and dripping — even the smaller races were popular on Belgian and Dutch television. As the camera came to Mycroft, he showed his race face, the Iceman’s face — but Lestrade leaned over and wrapped an arm around Mycroft and grinned foolishly into the camera.

“Get off.” Mycroft could not help laughing at the big oaf — and the camera caught his genuine smile. The fans in the stands went wild, cheering. “The Iceman melts!” One of the commentators crowed over the PA system. 

Then the cameraman cleared out and the race official counted them down. The whistle blew and forty-three men surged forwards.

The first corner came sooner than in most other races, swinging them around the wet pavement into a DIY sandpit four feet deep. Mycroft was sixth through the wet corner — he heard the clash of carbon fibre hitting pavement and the squeal of brakes behind him — and sixth into the sand wallow. 

He could ride this sand pit — he’d done it during his pre-ride. It wasn’t easy, but if one had enough power, balance and skill, it could be done every lap. 

The racers in front of him, however, were not convinced. Mycroft, caught behind them, was forced to dismount and run through to the dirt path on the other side. 

I say dirt… the path was muddy, boggy even in some places. It took them through a series of 180 degree turns which allowed Mycroft to see who was in front of him and who was behind, and how close everyone was. The crash had caused separation — there were only four racers directly behind him, a ten or twelve second gap to the next small group. He was surprised to see young John Watson had made the front group — he’d been in the third row today.

Lestrade was second in line, and second into the next hazard — the race course plunged four metres down a steep hill, looped back up to another corner, then cut sideways across the hillside. It was solid mud. 

Mycroft dismounted before the lip of the descent and stepped off. He immediately slid a metre, mud squishing up over his shoes, his bike sliding beside him. He reached the corner in two more sliding steps, then had to run up the muddy hillside. The racer in front of him — one of the orange men, Wurst, he thought — lost his footing, fell onto his knees and slid back down the hill on his stomach. Mycroft barely got out of his way, clinging to the orange netting that defined the course, then digging the metal spikes under the toes of his shoes deep into the mud to drag his bike up to the next corner.

Mycroft ran the long off-camber — it was impossible to remount and ride it in these conditions — then leapt back into the saddle for the plunge off the hill. The course led them on a long, curving path around a small lake. He tried to keep to the grass at the edges of the path as there was more traction, and forced himself to relax and bide his time. He _could_ start passing riders now, but it was wiser to wait, allow them to tire. He was held up again when a racer ahead of him got his handlebars caught on a post as they rode through a very boggy corner. He had to put a foot down, but got around the rider. He sped up carefully on the slick path, bridging up more slowly than he usually would.

Lestrade’s group still had a slight lead through a muddy field and past the bike pit. Lestrade rode into the pit for a fresh bike, Mycroft did not. His machine was running well, not yet gummed up with mud and sand. He expected that Lestrade would come out of the pit behind him — and he did — but _seven places_ behind him. The race was fast, but that was a very slow pit! Mycroft would have to be careful about when he took a bike.

He dismounted and ran up the stairs for the fly-over, mounting and clipping in as he coasted down the other side, then they swung around into the planks. There were three instead of the usual two. 

Mycroft could bunny-hop them — it was likely that every man in the race _could_ hop them on their bikes — but with three riders directly ahead of him and a number right behind, running them was smarter. He was off and jumping over the first barrier in one motion — then his foot squinched down into the mud between the hurdles and it sucked at his shoe. He stumbled, but got his other foot down in time — but it checked his forward momentum slightly, and that was enough to upset the racer jumping his bike over the barrier beside him — the front wheel of the man’s bicycle caught on the second barrier and he flipped over the bars, landing on his arse in the mud, bike flipping and falling sideways. By then, Mycroft was over the hurdles and mounting his bike, but he thought that that racer would not be getting up again — his foot had struck the third barrier pulling an agonised shout from the man. 

There were people tasked with helping downed riders. Mycroft raced on. He was third wheel now as they raced down to the lake, jumped a cement lip that had some actual function he didn’t care about right now, and onto the sandy shore. 

The ruts from the women’s elite race had been raked away into deceptive smoothness. They hit the sand fast and sank. Mycroft dismounted and ran, shouldering his bike — forcing everyone behind him to do the same.

Back on his bike, he swung around onto the wet pavement of the start/finish and took a quick look over his shoulder. Lestrade was in a group of four that joined with Mycroft’s group of six on the tarmac. Watson took advantage of the dip in pace to speed up and scoot around into first place.

Mycroft watched the young rider as he led into the sand. Watson rode through — weaving left and right, but putting down enough power to keep his wheels spinning. The racer behind him, however, lost momentum and jumped off, holding up everyone behind. Watson got a good gap — seven seconds by Mycroft’s count through the series of 180s. He sat back and let other riders do the work of bringing Watson back. 

Before they could do so, they were dismounting and once again sliding down the deep mud of the hill. Someone behind Mycroft slid past him on his arse, his bike slipping under the orange netting and off the course until his handlebars tangled in the mesh. He would be a minute working that out! Mycroft grabbed the post around which the course went from down to up, slinging himself onto the ascent and digging his mud-covered shoes into the hillside to scramble up with his bike. He ran the off-camber, leapt back onto his bike and found the one rut in the mud descent that could be ridden most safely. Back on flat ground, he looked around and saw that his group had not yet caught up to Watson. The small racer was fast and fearless. 

Watson rode into the bike pit eight seconds ahead of Mycroft’s group for a fresh bike. Mycroft weighed his options — if he went another lap without going into the slow bike pit, he could catch Watson right now. But that ran the risk of this bike malfunctioning as it became more and more coated with mud and sand. This was only the second lap. Mycroft took a fresh bike.

Father shouted encouragement as Mycroft took the bike from him and leapt upon it. 

Attrition did most of the work for him — so often these races came down to two things: who made the fewest mistakes and who could lay down 500-watt surges of power over and over and over and one more time than the rest.*****

By the fifth lap, they were down to four — three really, but Watson was tenacious and kept dragging himself back up to the front group (like a zombie in search of brains). Mycroft wasn’t worried about him, there were only so many times one could do that before the elastic broke.

Wurst too. He was riding well, but Mycroft had observed his exhaustion and predicted that they would drop him in the next lap.

It was Lestrade that worried him. The World Champion was riding very well — his rib must not be troubling him much anymore. His skills were as impressive as Mycroft’s own, and his power! He entered the sand first on lap six and the beauty of the man powering through the sand was glorious! Unlike everyone else who slowly tired and dropped away, Lestrade seemed to get stronger as the race went on. 

As he’d predicted, they went into lap seven alone, the two of them, powering through the sand and sliding side-by-side down the muddy slope. Lestrade’s white World Champion’s jersey was black with filth, and Mycroft knew his British National Champion’s skinsuit was just as muddy. It was thrown up by their tyres, it coated them where they’d slipped and slid, and on their arms where they held their bikes on their shoulders as they ran. Mycroft must have put an elbow down at one point, as his left sleeve was caked with it.

They fought for the lead, running pell-mell across the off-camber. Mycroft found the rut he wanted as he leapt back on his bike, and it shot him in front of Lestrade. He sat on Mycroft’s wheel through the field, around the lake, over the flyover and around to the hurdles. Lestrade challenged him on the way to the shore, but a lapped rider ahead of them forced them to ride single file. Mycroft reached the sand first. 

It had deep ruts carved in it now. They were perilous, even if you hit it perfectly, requiring a huge amount of energy this late in the race. Mycroft rode it flawlessly. 

With two laps left, Mycroft allowed Lestrade to lead, following his wheel as closely as possible. The World Champ made a mistake, dropping his bike in the muck on the way down the slope. He retrieved it and lost only a bike length — he was on Mycroft’s wheel as they rode the boggy path and across the muddy field. 

And then Lestrade rode into the pit for a clean bike. 

The slow pit!

Mycroft attacked, sprinting away. He flew up the stairs, pedalling hard down the flyover and into the planks. He bunny-hopped them, staying as far to the right as he could — there was a thin strip of grass there that was more solid than the rest of the ground between the hurdles. He powered down to the beach and through the rutted sand on the shore, back up to the finishing straight where he got the bell signalling that he was riding into the last lap. He risked a glance over his shoulder — Lestrade was just turning onto the pavement, but he was coming up fast!

He rode the sand on adrenaline, almost floating through it. On the 180s he counted the seconds between when he passed the midway of the first straight until Lestrade passed the same point. Eleven seconds! Not nearly enough or insurmountable? Mycroft could not predict the outcome! He leapt off his bike and slid on both feet halfway down the mudslide. He reached the corner in two more sliding steps and swung around. His thighs screamed as he pumped up through the muck onto the off camber. 

Mycroft ran for his life, leaping onto his saddle as his front wheel started down the steep descent. He found the line on the edge of the boggy path that let him ride just a mite faster, around the slick corner and through the field. He wanted a clean bike, but he didn’t dare take one!

He took the stairs two at a time, bunny-hopped the hurdles perfectly. The crowds were screaming, but Mycroft couldn’t hear anything but the roar in his ears. He raced down to the lake and ploughed through the sand… but he came a’cropper and had to jump off and run the last third! At least it was smooth and fast. He was back on his bike and sprinting hard up the bank — he had no idea where Lestrade was now, somewhere between directly behind him and thirty seconds back. 

Mycroft gained the pavement and stood up and sprinted, peeking under his arm to try to see Lestrade. He couldn’t! He couldn’t but that didn’t mean he wasn’t on the other side. Mycroft sprinted with everything he had, approaching the line that never seemed to get closer. Finally, he crossed and threw his arms up in the air! A confetti canon shot its bounty over him — and Lestrade came through before it reached the ground.

Overwhelmed and anaerobic, Mycroft allowed someone to catch his bike and he collapsed onto the wet tarmac, panting and coughing. Father materialised and helped him up, wrapping a coat around his muddy shoulders and leading him away into someone’s garage — it was standing in for the warming tent today.

Lestrade followed him, Boy Hermans at his side. The epic frown on his face damped some of Mycroft’s euphoria, but when Lestrade caught sight of him, he winked and shot him a feral smile — a smile that said, “This is not over! This has just begun!”

—-

Mycroft slept most of the way to Koksidje. 

After the podium ceremonies in Beringen, they drove the four plus hours to the city on the English Channel. Mycroft, still feeling a chill in his bones, had curled up under a blanket and passed out.

Koksidje was a big race, a World Cup race — Mycroft still led the World Cup series with Vanthourenhout in second. Lestrade, after sitting out the first four, had amassed enough points to join them in the top ten. Defending his place at the top required Mycroft to be consistent. He didn’t have to _win_ every race, but he had to do well in _all_ of the races. He had a 78-point lead going into Koksidje, but if he didn’t do well, Vanthourenhout could start chipping away at it.

Mycroft didn’t get a shower until after they’d checked into the hotel, later than he would have preferred. After Anthea massaged his legs, he made himself eat his remaining meal and protein drink and then fell into bed, dead to the world, without plugging in his phone.

It was grey and cold the next morning, but dry. Mycroft ate his porridge and got on the bus to the race course. He rode onto the course immediately, checking it out, getting a feel for it. He argued with Uncle Rudy about the best line downhill through a copse of trees — a small boulder in the middle of the path had been spray painted bright yellow, and there were viable lines on either side. It was a ridiculous argument. One would clearly take the left side unless it was too crowded and thus more expedient to take the right.

He thought he might see Lestrade on the course — they hadn’t had a chance to talk yesterday after the race. If he’d texted, well Mycroft’s phone was still charging on the bus.

Lestrade found him at lunchtime, bringing his own little cooler. They found a quiet corner that overlooked part of the course and Mycroft ate his lunch — savoury rice bars, chicken breasts, avocado, three pears, a banana and 16 ounces of beetroot juice. He ate slowly — the pears were new, but otherwise he was so sick of the menu. The nutritionists had him on a gluten-free diet, not because of any demonstrated intolerance, but because gluten was ‘inflammatory to the tissues.’ Mycroft couldn’t argue with the results — he maintained his race weight and he had abundant energy for racing and training — but after three years, eating had become a chore. 

Still, it was good to sit with his friend, talking about nothing in particular until it was time to get ready for their race.

By mid-afternoon, the wind had picked up substantially. It would slow the race, make sitting behind another rider very advantageous. Mycroft’s warm up had gone well and he thought he would have good legs... but he never knew for certain until the race started. He handed his coat off to Uncle Rudy, and clipped his right foot into the pedal, poised to push down and begin his sprint. The camera made its way down the line, capturing their faces directly before the race start. Lestrade was on the far end of the line, grinning at his fans on the other side of the camera.

The red lights lit one by one. They flashed green and Mycroft was pedalling furiously down the pavement, looking to get the hole shot into the first corner.

He was going well, top four — and positioned to go through the corner first. 

Then…

The rider next to him pulled a foot out of one of his pedals as they sprinted, overbalancing and his bike swerved into Mycroft’s and then Mycroft was flying and impacting — hard! All the air left his lungs in a _woof_ , and he lay gasping like a fish out of water to fill them again.

When he could breath, Mycroft had to untangle himself from several other riders who had also been taken out — one looked to have a collarbone fracture, at least Mycroft had avoided that — get his bike turned around and jump on it to start a long chase. He’d only lost twenty or twenty-five seconds, but he’d have to make his way through all the riders in the field, all 91.

His handlebars were crooked. Mycroft swore internally and jumped off his bike. He put the front wheel between his knees and banged his handlebars with his fist into a semblance of straightness. Only then could he resume his chase. 

It was a long chase. He rode full-on for the entire hour, catching rider after rider and leaving them behind. The heavy wind made it torturously slow work. 

Ultimately, Mycroft never did find the front. Perhaps if the course had been more technical, favouring his skills over pure power… perhaps if the wind hadn’t been so strong, tiring his legs that much more quickly…

He finished sixth — an excellent result considering — and kept the lead in the overall, though Vanthourenhout, who finished second, was now within ten points of taking over the series lead

Crashing was part of the sport, everyone knew that. Mycroft hadn’t done anything wrong — he’d been taken out by the other rider. Still, he was not looking forward to Mummy’s texts. She’d likely want to Skype as well. The very thought tied his stomach into knots.

It was trying, having to go through the whole podium rigamarole, waiting whilst Lestrade, Vanthourenhout and Vermeersch collected their prizes, only to ceremonially receive the leader’s jersey again. 

Mycroft hid his bad mood, trying to smile on the podium and telling the interviewers philosophically that it went this way sometimes. One could only do one’s best.

Lestrade, however, noticed that Mycroft was out of sorts. He waited in the tent behind the podium — he handed off the trophy he’d been awarded for winning, but kept hold of the giant sausage. It was a local product that was said to be delicious. The winner looked absurd holding the foot and a half long encased meat, but it always garnered enthusiastic cheers from the fans and bemused smiles from the lucky recipient. 

“I’m happy to see you.” Lestrade joked. “See.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, amused in spite of himself. “Congratulations on your win today. I hear you gave a master class in how to ride cyclocross in the wind.”

Lestrade snorted. “You have to stop listening to the commentary, Slim... though they said some nice things about you.”

“My race was shite.”

Lestrade shrugged. “No crying in cyclocross.”

“The Iceman never cries.”

“No whingeing either.”

“Who made that rule? I’ve never heard that rule.”

“Take this.” Lestrade dumped the giant sausage into Mycroft’s arms.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“My sausage?” Lestrade murmured suggestively. “I think you know.” He dropped a wink. “See you at home, Slim.”

Mycroft was not _entirely_ unhappy to carry the ridiculous thing onto the bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there are like, four people following this story — you guys are the best! Thanks for following and commenting. It means everything!
> 
> ******
> 
> *Stagiaire - a young rider given a tentative ‘try-out’ contract with a pro team. https://inrng.com/2015/07/stagiaire-season/
> 
> ** https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ardennes_classics
> 
> ***Ronde Van Vlaanderen is Flemish for Tour of Flanders. It is an extremely difficult, prestigious and famous one day race held every Spring. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tour_of_Flanders
> 
> **** The Oude Kwaremont, is the name of one of the cobbled roads leading up the Kluisberg hill. The Kluisberg is one of several hill formations in the Flemish Ardennes in the south of East-Flanders, close to the border with Wallonia. The climbing road is best known for its presence in many Flemish professional cycling races, such as the Tour of Flanders, E3 Harelbeke and Dwars door Vlaanderen.
> 
> ****Orange is the colour of the Netherlands (thought its flag is red, white and blue). The Belgian flag has three stripes, one black, one yellow and one red. Hats like these are popular at cyclocross races in cycling mad Belgium and The Netherlands.
> 
> ****Many cyclist use power meters — usually installed in the rear wheel or cranks — that measures the power the cyclist is generating in watts. Training can be geared towards generating a specific number of watts, i.e. two hours at 185 watts with ten 30 second intervals at 400+ watts. Cyclists can also have their power calculated under laboratory conditions with advanced equipment, and such testing might be used to assess the cyclist’s potential. https://www.cyclingweekly.com/group-tests/power-meters-everything-you-need-to-know-35563
> 
> A racer who can put out 500 watts for short periods over and over again can be extremely successful in cyclocross.


	6. KWAREMONT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has moved into the guest house, thirty metres from Mycroft’s back door. Their friendship develops and grows.

Lestrade living in the barn — the guest house — worked out better than Mycroft ever could have imagined. They trained together several days per week, ate together at least half the time, and in the evenings, more often than not, Mycroft found himself laying on Lestrade’s rug, legs up on the couch whilst Lestrade lay beside him or on the couch with his own legs elevated on the arm. Sometimes they just talked, sometimes they listened to music, sometimes they watched the police procedurals Lestrade loved. Mycroft learned early not to spoil him by pointing out the murderer as soon as he or she appeared onscreen. 

“How do you know? How do you always know?!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “As if it weren’t perfectly obvious. Look at his hands! Look at the way the wife glances at him.”

Lestrade had wide-ranging taste in music, from American Jazz of the 50’s and 60’s to Drum and Bass of the late 90’s, Britpop, Beatles, Bowie, Franz Ferdinand and the Strokes, as well as recordings of all twenty-three of Mozart’s piano concertos. He introduced Mycroft to Hall and Oates.

“Are you serious? You’ve never heard of Hall and Oates?” Lestrade said over Method of Modern Love.

“Why would I lie?”

“I dunno… it just seems… improbable. They were playing Rich Girl at the grocery yesterday — I mean, music of that era, it’s like Christmas music — impossible to avoid.”

“And yet.” Mycroft liked to watch the play of emotions across Lestrade’s face. He was an open book — a fascinating, absorbing book. “Regardless, I am enjoying it now. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, I have a bunch of their albums loaded up, you can listen to as much at you like.” 

They listened and they talked. They talked about everything — about racing, training, tactics, about pro teams and contracts, about family, sexuality, about falling in and out of love... Lestrade would listen patiently as Mycroft rattled on about wattage and training regimens, TSS scores, analysing Lestrade’s data with the latest developments in Sports Science in mind and comparing it with his own. Lestrade told Mycroft about racing on the road, how it was different from racing cyclocross. He talked about what he might do in ten years or so when he wasn’t competitive on the bike any longer, talk about how he’d wanted to be a policeman when he was young… or an astronaut. Mycroft told Lestrade his complicated theories about government and economics, his worries about Russian hackers and Chinese hackers and Middle Eastern hackers and how they were influencing democratic countries for the worse. He wanted to open up the British government — and the EU — and study it, find out how it worked, how it ticked along, and improve it... Mycroft was a polymath of the first order.

“I can’t decide,” Greg told him. “If you should have gone to Oxford and directly into world domination, or if it can wait fifteen years until you’re done racing.”

“Cambridge.” Mycroft told him. “Not Oxford.”

Lestrade snorted. “Ok.”

“Holmeses go to Cambridge. That’s where Father met Mummy.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.”

“How’d they meet? Freshers dance? Or was he her tutor?”

“She was his tutor.” Mycroft told him. “Father was older when he went to Cambridge. He was an athlete too — an Olympian. 1996 in Atlanta. Rowing. British team took the Bronze. The pictures of him...”

“Bet they look like you.”

“They do at that. He looked... young.”

“He won a medal.”

“Yes. He won a medal. It’s in a box on the top shelf in his closet. If anyone mentions it, he says no one cares who came in third.”

“That’s not true... but there is something special about that top step.”

“Indeed. After Atlanta he travelled — America, Brazil, Australia... Thailand...China… climbed Everest...”

“Everest! I didn’t realise your dad was an adventurer.”

“You wouldn’t today, would you. He met Mummy at Cambridge... it speaks well of him, I’ve always thought, that he has never been put off that she’s smarter than he, stronger willed... just... bigger... so many men seem to need an inferior partner to feel masculine.”

“Many, yeah. Not all.”

Mycroft smiled. “No, not all. Anyway, she fell pregnant and they married.”

“And lil’ Mycroft came along.”

Mycroft scoffed. “She was very put out that motherhood delayed her book.”

“Colicky, were you, Slim.”

“I was, by all accounts, a quiet infant. Unlike my brother.”

Lestrade chuckled. “I can see Sherlock squalling from day one. Hasn’t stopped yet.”

“Nor is he likely. He takes after Mummy.” Mycroft hummed softly to himself. “What about your family? Do you have siblings?”

“Two sisters — both older. Both have families of their own now. I have three nieces, still too young for proper bikes.”

“Your parents?”

“Mum died of cancer, oh, eight years ago.”

“Greg, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, that was a shit year. I raced the whole time... I don’t know if I was a selfish twat, or if they wanted me to be busy so I wouldn’t fall apart.” Lestrade sighed “Or they just wanted me out of the way. Probably some combination.”

“Greg... you’re the least selfish person I know.”

“Never underestimate an eighteen-year-old’s propensity to be selfish.” Lestrade said. “Anyway, my dad and my oldest sister saw her through... my dad loved racing — got me my first ‘cross bike when I was ten, taught me the basics...”

“Your father... has he passed as well?” Mycroft asked delicately. 

“In a manner of speaking — dementia. He doesn’t recognise me now.”

“How awful.”

“Yeah, about the time he forgot my name, I met Fleur... it was good to have... family, I guess. Jesus... I am a selfish twat!”

“Greg... you lost your parents.”

“I wonder sometimes if I just used her.”

“You cared for her?”

“Yes. I loved her. I’d never fallen in love before. I... I didn’t know... I didn’t know I could fall out.”

“I don’t understand love.” Mycroft said. “I’m not certain that it is something I care to understand.”

“Have you ever fallen in love, Slim?”

“Me? Not as such. I’ve had... yearnings... but nothing too... uncomfortable.”

“Yearnings.” The smile in Lestrade’s voice was endearing. “You mean... lust?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Definitely lust. But also a desire for... more.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade said wistfully. “ _More_.” His fingers toyed with the cuff of Mycroft’s shirt, stroking the fabric with his thumb and forefinger.

Mycroft realised one morning with some surprise that before Lestrade he had been terribly lonely. Mycroft’s closest companions had been his fourteen-year-old brother, his kindly Father and Anthea who massaged his legs most days and baked special gluten-free rice bars for him.

And Mummy. Brilliant, charismatic Mummy.

Their rivalry on the racecourse was absolute. But off the course, Mycroft found he could not care much if Lestrade had beaten him. And when Mycroft prevailed, there was always a moment of anxiety afterwards, anxiety that this time Lestrade would be bitter, that he would begrudge Mycroft the win. But he never did.

Lestrade was... easy to talk with... easy to open himself up as he’d never even contemplated opening up. Without thought or volition, he let Lestrade in, trusted him.

November waned. Mycroft looked at his race schedule one day and saw on the calendar Greg had moved in six weeks prior. Only six weeks! It felt as if he’d known Lestrade for years.

They rode out that day on the same route they had taken the first time they’d trained together — on the Ronde Van Vlaanderen course that took them up the Kwaremont. They raced to the top again, Mycroft not outpacing Lestrade this time, but not falling behind him either. He rode Lestrade’s wheel down the other side, letting the stockier man cut the wind for him. It was wonderfully freeing, riding so fast! Glancing at his computer, he saw they were approaching 70k per hour. It was like flying.

Mycroft felt wild with joy. The freedom! The beauty of the man ahead of him! He felt content in a way he never had before.

BANG!

The noise was loud — for a second Mycroft thought it was a gun shot. Then his bike fishtailed! 

He balanced instinctually, trying to control the oscillating machine. Adrenaline exploded through his body and nausea grew in the pit of his stomach.

He’d blown a tyre. 

Mycroft squeezed the rear brake and sat up to catch air, to slow himself. He moved his weight back, trying to control the bike as he skidded along the shoulder. He was going too fast! 

He was in the grass, there were trees, he squeezed the rear brake hard and swerved — the sky kaleidoscoped and the earth rose up and he was air-born and time slowed and swelled as he hurtled towards the gravel...

…impacting the unyeilding ground, jarring his bones and sliding, stones poking and tearing...

The stillness was complete, the world dark cold. Stones bit into his flesh and he was panting, sucking oxygen into his shocked lungs.

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft opened his eyes. He tasted dust and blood. His glove was torn. He couldn’t see his bike.”

“Mycroft! Mate!” Lestrade rushed to kneel at his side.

“I’m fine.” Mycroft said automatically, sitting up. “Blew a tyre.” He’d almost kept it upright. Almost didn’t count.

“God, My, let me see!” Lestrade tilted Mycroft’s face gently, studying his forehead.

“Is my helmet damaged?” He asked, touching it with his gloved hand. It was garbage now regardless — helmets had one crash in them, after that — even if they appeared intact — they wouldn’t protect your head. Mycroft unclasped the strap under his chin and tossed the thing aside. 

“You have a cut. It’s... uh... bleeding.”

“Cuts do that. Help me up. Where is my bike?”

“It’s here.” Lestrade offered his hand and pulled Mycroft to his feet. His hip and shoulder complained. And his hand. He took a few exploratory steps.

“Nothing appears to be broken.” Mycroft told Lestrade. “I’ll live.” He had a spare tube in case he flatted... but without a tyre, he had no choice but to call someone to come get him. He picked up his bike and examined it, tracing the torn bar tape with his fingers. “Bollocks.” He began fishing in his pockets for his phone.

The screen was smashed. 

“Bugger!” Mycroft muttered and flung the thing away. 

“Hey, it’s ok.” Lestrade said putting his hands on Mycroft’s arms, holding him steady, his concern evident. “You can use my phone. Or I can call for you.”

Mycroft sighed. He allowed himself to lean into his friend for just a moment — a strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, careful of the torn area. 

“Hey there, Slim. I’ve got you.”

Mycroft sunk into the warmth, feeling Lestrade’s firm chest against his own. The arms around him were comforting, he could smell soap and sweat and shampoo... he wanted to fall asleep here, safe in this man’s embrace.

“I’ve got you.” Lestrade murmured, his breath hot on Mycroft’s neck. “You scared me, but I’ve got you now.” He rubbed comforting circles on Mycroft’s back.

Lifting his head from the broad shoulder, Mycroft looked into Lestrade’s strangely intense gaze. The brown eyes were deep and velvety. “You’re shaking.”

“Am I? Shock.”

Blunt fingers touched Mycroft’s jaw, Lestrade’s eyes flicked to Mycroft’s mouth and it took his breath away. Slowly Lestrade — Greg — leaned in and brushed his lips against Mycroft’s.

“You’re ok...” Mycroft didn’t know if it were question or statement — at that moment he didn’t know up from down. Greg kissed him, his lips soft and yielding, his stubble rough.

“Oh!” Mycroft’s fingers tightened in the fabric of Greg’s jacket, pulling him closer. Their tongues met and his entire body tingled and throbbed. Strong arms tightened around Mycroft holding him safe, stroking and adoring him...

He’d never been kissed like this, never imagined a kiss could be like this, like oxygen, like fire...

Cognisance dawned — Lestrade was kissing him! 

Lestrade!!!

Mycroft had never allowed himself to dream of Lestrade’s kisses, to fantasize about being held and... and... loved...

It was impossible!

He could not do this!

Why?! Why was Lestrade…?

A red mist descended, pure fury enveloping him, consuming him. Mycroft shoved Lestrade away, struggling from his embrace.

“Slim...? Hey...”

“Stop it! Let go!”

“Wait...”

Mycroft hit him, striking Lestrade in the chest, then striding down the road. He wanted to jump on his bike and ride away, flee from this... imposter. This man he’d _thought_ was his friend. But he couldn’t — the rear tyre flapped, catching in the brakes and sticking, clogging. Mycroft hoisted it onto his shoulder instead.

“My, where are you going?”

“Leave me alone!”

“Look, I’m sorry!”

Mycroft kept walking, stiff with anger. He’d come to a house eventually. Or he’d flag down a car… or a bus. He’d ride into the nearest town, or ask to use a phone, call Anthea or Uncle Rudy to come pick him up.

Lestrade on his bike pulled up beside him. “You’re angry.” He said, abashed. “I didn’t mean... hey, come on, I’m sorry, Slim.”

Mycroft scoffed, wishing the man — this treacherous stranger — would let him be.

“I get it, I made a mistake. Don’t be mad. Why are you mad?”

“I don’t need your bloody pity!” Mycroft spat. “I don’t want it!”

“What... I don’t pity you, My.”

Mycroft rounded on him. “Then what was that!? Give the shirt lifter a thrill!?”

“No... I... I...”

“You’re straight! You don’t want me! You feel sorry for me! You and your ridiculous saviour complex! Is that all this has been?! The entire time!?”

“God! No!”

Mycroft turned away and continued marching down the road.

“Mycroft, wait — you’re wrong. You’re wrong!”

“Then why!?” Mycroft knew his hurt was beginning to show. He hated that Lestrade could see it. He felt tears prick at his eyes and he loathed himself. His ridiculous, pathetic self.

“Stop for a minute. Let me explain.”

Mycroft stopped and stared down his beaky nose at the other man, refusing to allow his tears to fall. “Fine.” He choked. “ _Explain_.” He pulled the bike from his shoulder and let it drop to the pavement — it clattered distressingly. Arms crossed over his chest, he waited, staring fixedly over Lestrade’s shoulder.

“First of all, I’m not straight. I’m not gay, but I’m not straight. Maybe I should have told you...”

Mycroft looked at him sharply. “You’ve been with men?”

“Yeah. Yes. Before Fleur. It wasn’t a big deal.” Lestrade said. “And I don’t pity you — I... My, I _like_ you.”

“You like me.” Mycroft snapped.

“I’m… I think I’m falling for you.”

Mycroft sneered. “Bollocks!”

“It’s not... you’re gorgeous — I’ve been attracted to you since we met. Legs for days! So... so elegant. And the way you ride a bike!”

Mycroft scoffed, feeling his stomach begin to churn.

“And the better I got to know you... I realised a while ago, how much I like you. It... it scared me. It scared me to death. I’ve fooled around with men, but a relationship...”

“Relationship!”

“Yeah. It took me some time to get my head around it — none of this has been easy. But you’re my best friend, Slim. I thought... I wanted... God! I’m sorry if I got this wrong — I thought you felt the same about me.”

“I don’t!”

“Yeah, I figured that out.”

“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I want every man I see!”

“I know. I just... I guess I hoped...”

“You know I can’t! Even if I did have _feelings_ for you, I can’t!”

“They would never have to know!”

“They would know! Mummy would know!”

“I’m sorry, I... I wasn’t thinking.” Lestrade said softly. “I was worried about you — you went down hard and you’re bleeding...” He reached out towards Mycroft’s shoulder, but stopped abruptly and let his hand drop. “I just wanted to make certain you were OK. And then... you felt so good.” Lestrade rubbed his face, distress writ on his features. “I overstepped.”

Mycroft sagged. Lestrade was telling the truth — and it was worse than if Mycroft had been right about the pity. _So much worse_! How could he be around Greg now? Knowing that he could _have_ him! Knowing that he was not off-limits. That he could have his gorgeous body and have a... a real boyfriend... a beautiful man who _cared_ about him... who wanted more than a quick grope, wanted a _relationship_!

Mycroft didn’t want to know that! He _couldn’t_ know that! It made his enforced celibacy exponentially more awful! It was intolerable!

“Look, use my phone — call whoever you want to come for you.”

Wearily, Mycroft turned away. But all he found were winter trees, black and skeletal against the grey sky.

It was cold and his adrenaline was fading. Without the exercise to keep him warm, Mycroft rapidly succumbed to the chill. It was appropriate, he thought, The Iceman should be cold inside and out. He hunched, shivering, huddled in on himself.

“Here.” He heard Lestrade unzip the thick, spandex cycling jacket he wore over his long-sleeved jersey.

“I don’t want your coat.” Mycroft snarled.

“You need it more than I do right now. Shock, remember.”

“I don’t want it!”

“Mycroft...” Lestrade’s voice was raw. “Tell me I haven’t fucked everything up. We’re still friends, yeah?” Lestrade nudged him with his shoulder — his warm and solid shoulder — and Mycroft, god help him, felt himself begin to melt. He jerked away, renewed adrenaline and anger spiking and making his heart race. “Mycroft...?”

A pickup came ’round the corner and slowed. Mycroft raised an arm, flagging the driver. The truck pulled up next to them. “You fellas ok?” A man in late middle age, clearly a farmer, peered at them from the cab of the truck. His eyes widened and Mycroft knew Greg had been recognised.

“You’re Greg Lestrade!” He exclaimed.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re that British fellow! With the Belgian mum — Garin’s girl. You’re very good!”

“You’re too kind.”

“Having a little trouble?”

“I blew a tyre.” Mycroft told him, lifting his bike a foot off the ground.

“Well, I’m going as far as Waregem if you want a ride. You can find a shop to help you fix that — or a warm place to wait for your people.”

“Thank you, I would appreciate that.”

“Put your machine in the back then.”

Mycroft complied, his roiling nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He clamped down on it mercilessly.

The man focussed on Lestrade. “I’m a big fan — we all are. My grandkids have started racing. Oldest wants to grow up to be Marianna Vos.”*

Greg chuckled. “I want to grow up to be Marianna Vos.”

The man laughed along.

“What field are they racing? Juniors?”

“Yessir, oldest is twelve now — won her age group last weekend! But even the three-year-old practices dismounts on his trike. They aren’t going to believe I ran into you!” The farmer grinned. “I’d ask for an autograph but it’s a bit nippy to keep you hanging about.”

“Do you have a card?” Greg asked.

The man shifted and pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. “Here you go.” 

Greg took it with a smile. “Thank you for rescuing my friend. You deserve an autograph.”

“Don’t go to any trouble, now.”

Greg opened the door for Mycroft. “We need to talk.” He murmured. “Tonight.”

Mycroft looked into anxious brown eyes and found he did not have the heart to deny him. He nodded briefly and climbed into the passenger seat. “I’ll see you later.”

The look of relief on Lestrade’s face was profound. “Yes.”

It was warm in the truck, and though his shoulder throbbed, and his stomach twisted, Mycroft began to feel drowsy. It shocked him, that after the events of the past half hour, he could sleep so easily.

The idea of shutting down and blocking out this new and terrible complication was so tempting. But he’d agreed to meet with Lestrade tonight... Mycroft needed to work out the implications of what had just happened.

Lestrade liked him!

Lestrade had been with men!

And he wanted Mycroft!

Very few people could surprise Mycroft Holmes, but Greg seemed to have a talent for it.

—-

Knocking on the guest house door that evening was a different experience than it had been only the day before. Mycroft had come close to begging off, lingering in the shower where any treacherous tears could be conflated with the water coursing over his face.

But this conversation wouldn’t get easier if Mycroft postponed it.

His stomach had not calmed at all, still threatening to expel its contents. He had gagged on his recovery drink and not dared to eat his proscribed meal. His stomach revolted at the very thought.

“It’s unlocked.” He heard Greg shout. Mycroft let himself in. The remains of Greg’s recovery meal lay on the table, the cabinet kitchen opened wide. Greg himself emerged from his closet — he was gloriously beautiful in old jeans and a clinging green jumper. 

Mycroft turned away, denying himself the sight. He sat uneasily on the upholstered chair, toed off his shoes and drew his knees up to his chest — a barrier between himself and Greg.

Seeing this, Greg looked inexpressibly sad. 

“Something to drink?” Greg asked.

Mycroft lifted the bottle he held with the protein and carbohydrate drink he had yet to finish.

“Ah.” Greg ran a hand through his hair. “Are you all right? From the crash, I mean. How is your shoulder?”

“A small bruise.” He’d lost skin on both shoulder and hip and had scuffed up his hand a bit as well. The bloody cut over his eye had turned out to be tiny. He’d had much worse, this was barely a nuisance.

“Good.” Greg said, looking like he wanted to know more. “Oh, I brought you this.” He retrieved Mycroft’s phone from the kitchen table and held it out. “The screen’s cracked, but it still works. You can back it up, at least.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind.”

Greg turned away again running his hand through his floppy hair. Then, with resolve, he walked around the couch and sat on the end closest to Mycroft’s chair. “That’s it? You’re going to treat me like you did when we first met? Like you barely know me?”

Mycroft took a moment to search Greg for clues to his mental state. His resentful words covered a keen sadness tinged with bitterness.

“I don’t know.” Mycroft admitted. “I’ve never been in this position before.”

Greg nodded, accepting the answer. 

“You’ve been with men?” Mycroft asked baldly.

“Yeah... I should have told you...” Greg shook his head, conveying disgust with himself. “When I was younger. My cousin, Jempey — you met him — we’re less than a year apart. We grew up together, more brothers than cousins... I was the first person he came out to... 

“We used to go clubbing together after my mum died. And right away I realised that I was attracted to men too... I thought maybe I was gay, but I liked women — I like women — a lot. 

“It was easy, fooling around with men. Straightforward. You like the look of a bloke, you take him to the loo or out back of the club and hook up... get off... no fuss.

“Then I met Mattieu... he wasn’t...” Greg sighed deeply, running his hand through his hair. “It could have been more with him. But I wasn’t… mature enough, I guess.” He looked up, spreading his hands to say ‘that’s all I have.’ “After I started seeing Fleur... I stopped looking at men. I stopped looking at anyone else, I didn’t want anyone else. Until I met you last year. Mycroft... God... did you feel it? Between us? It was... _electric_...” Greg hung his head. “For me, at least.”

There was quiet between them as Mycroft absorbed it all. That Greg had been attracted to him from the start... felt confusing. The swirl of information and emotion threatened to capsize him, plunge him into heretofore unexplored depths. Mycroft struggled and splashed and ultimately grabbed onto the only bit of flotsam that bobbed to the surface, unaffected by the ocean of his sentiment.

“What did Jean-Pierre think when you were with Fleur?”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know. That hooking up with blokes was a phase maybe... he said something about heterosexual privilege once when he was drunk... but with my parents... and he knew I loved her.” 

Jean-Pierre was no help. Mycroft still felt shell-shocked, still at sea. 

“What about you?” Greg asked. “Did you always know you were gay?”

“Yes.” Mycroft nodded, hugging his knees. “I knew but I didn’t think much about it... until I met Phillip.” He said. “The gardener’s assistant. He was... sweet. It wouldn’t have lasted long, even without the intervention.” 

“Your parents found out?”

“Sherlock saw us... announced it at dinner.” Mycroft sighed, even the memory exhausting.

“The little sod.”

“He didn’t understand.” Mycroft defended his brother. “He was only eleven. I didn’t understand either, not really. I knew it would not be a welcome discovery, but I had no idea how strongly my parents felt.” He stared at his toes, controlling the inconvenient emotions this remembrance still inspired. “It was… unpleasant. I considered leaving, seriously considered packing up my bikes and gear and escaping… but where would I go? And Sherlock… I could not abandon him.” He sighed. “I felt I had no choice but to accept their conditions.”

“Conditions they never should have forced on you.” Greg declared.

“Yes, well, in some respects they have my best interests at heart.”

“They do?” Greg asked sceptically.

How could Mycroft explain? “Greg… you know I am… ambitious, for lack of a better word. After I finish racing, I want to be of service — and with my... my talents, it is not a conceit to think that I could be valuable to my country... but _poofters_ do not get the same opportunities as heterosexuals. That’s simply how it is. I would be wise to avoid relationships entirely.”

“Mycroft…”

“I don’t want a _small_ life.” Mycroft was adamant. 

“A life without love? That sounds like a _small_ life to me.”

Mycroft looked up, surprised. Overwhelmed. “Perhaps you are correct.” He allowed, but his voice was cool and unconvinced. “But faced with the choice of... of keeping my mother and my brother close, keeping my home and everything I’ve ever known versus the uncertainty and volatility of a _hypothetical_ love relationship — why would I risk it?!”

“Hypothetical... well, when you put it that way, I see what an idiot I am.” Greg’s sarcasm could not cover his hurt.

“I didn’t mean _you_ , obviously.” Mycroft objected.

“Then who?” Greg asked. “I’m here. I care for you.” He ran his hand through his hair distractedly. “Are there others? Other men?!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I think that ship has sailed.”

“Greg…” Mycroft leaned forward his eyes intense. “I thought this went without saying — I value your companionship more than I can express. I have never had… someone like you… a _friend_... in my life and I am immeasurably richer for it. You are not an idiot! Honestly, if there were to be someone —” Mycroft broke off, turning his face away. 

Greg leaned forward, reaching out. “Would it be me…?’

“It does neither of us any good to speculate.”

Greg wilted and pulled back in on himself. “Of course not.”

“I am what I am, Greg. I am what my parents have made me. You think me cold…”

“No — I _know_ you aren’t cold. Not when you let down your walls.”

“I cannot let them down — not... not all of them.” Mycroft blinked furiously at the mutinous lubrication in his eyes. He could not let them spill, not where Greg could see them. “I’m very sorry.”

“You can’t let your parents down, is what you mean.” Greg sounded resigned.

“Perhaps.”

“I wish things were different for you.”

“Wishing is useless.”

Greg smirked a little at such a quintessentially Mycroftian statement, but when he spoke, his voice was sad. “You deserve better, My. You deserve the best.”

Mycroft smiled faintly. “I believe you are alone in that estimation.”

“I shouldn’t be.” Greg returned earnestly. “This isn’t sustainable — you know that, right? Or do you plan to be celibate for the rest of your life.”

“Soon enough I will be with a pro team and my family will not be in a position to monitor my social life so closely.”

“So you do have plan!” Greg exclaimed, reaching out and grasping Mycroft’s foot. 

Mycroft flinched and Greg pulled away immediately, his face falling. “I don’t suppose we could forget what happened? Just go back to the way it was before?”

“I don’t know.” Mycroft admitted. “That would be ideal. But...”

“ _But_.” Greg agreed.

“With my situation, being in your company now... it feels... perilous. And, I fear, hurtful to you.”

“God. I was so stupid to think...” Greg again ran his hand through his hair — an anxious tic he’d rarely before displayed. “ _Can_ we still be friends?”

Mycroft balanced on the knife’s edge. He’d planned to tell Greg that, no, they could not be close any longer. That was the wise thing to do. The smart thing. But faced with the loneliness, the utter emptiness (but for his mother and brother, far away in Britain) of his life before Greg had become a part of it, he wavered.

“We can try.” Mycroft said haltingly. “I want to. But it cannot be the way it was. I cannot... encourage you.”

“God, I was so stupid!” Greg muttered. “I’m not usually so stupid.”

Mycroft could not bear to see him so distressed. He cleared his throat. “Remember to whom you are speaking.” He said, dredging up the arch tone he would have used before all this mess.

Greg looked up, startled. Then he laughed. “Oh, Slim.” He fell back on the sofa, giggling — all the tension and emotion bubbling up. “Oh, Slim, I... goddammit...” His laughter tapered off eventually leaving the guest house eerily silent.

“I fucked up.” Greg said. “Oh, God, I fucked up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello chickens! Things are finally beginning to hot up for our protagonists! How long do you think Mycroft can continue to deny his feelings for Greg?
> 
> Thank you for all your wonderful comments! I’m so glad you’re enjoying this fic!
> 
> ***
> 
> *Marianna Vos is one of the best professional cyclists ever. She has been World Champion on the road and in cyclocross multiple times and she won the gold medal for the road race at the London Olympics. She is downright amazing. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marianne_Vos


	7. LIVIGNO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft deals with the loneliness and uncertainty that Lestrade's revelation has caused.

November slipped into December with another win for Lestrade and one for the journeyman Vanthourenhout. Mycroft could not begrudge him, so often a bridesmaid, so rarely the bride...

Mycroft’s two second places had earned him sympathetic disappointment from Mummy via Skype — she did not feel his form should be waning at this point in the season. He did not remind her that holding top form for months at a time was impossible. He needed to taper a bit so he could come back strong for the important and plentiful races between Christmas and New Year’s.

She wanted to sit down with him and Uncle Rudy and go over Mycroft’s training schedules. Mycroft suggested that perhaps they should review his diet.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft. You know how chubby you were before we went to the nutritionist.”

“Eight years ago! And the nutritionist and the doctor said that was my body preparing for a growth spurt.”

“Regardless, your food program works. You cannot argue with the results.”

“Results like second place?”

“Don’t be provocative, Mycroft.”

All the racers began preparing for the two weeks of Christmas and New Year’s when there would be cyclocross races almost every day but Christmas itself. For many, that meant a training camp in warmer climes. For Mycroft, his preparation included a nine-day altitude camp in the Italian Alps. 

It was good timing, he thought. Fresh scenery, sunshine and a respite from the awkwardness that had sat between himself and Lestrade since the _incident_.

Since that moment on the roadside when Greg Lestrade had taken him in his arms and kissed him, Mycroft had not been able to relax with his friend. He could not _allow_ himself to relax, not now that he knew the danger Lestrade posed — it would be too easy to love him. And Mycroft could not! It was too great a gamble! He would lose too much and what would he gain? _All things end_ — that had been drilled into him the entirety of his life. All things end. If he gave up _everything_ he now had for Greg Lestrade, sooner or later, Greg would leave him with _nothing_.

Likely sooner than later. 

Eventually, Mycroft hoped, his friendship with Greg would return to normal and he would have it all — the love of his mother, his brother, father, coach, home, trust fund, career, _and_ a bosom companion unsullied by the complexities of romantic love.

If only Mycroft could force his body into compliance with his mind.

In the days after it had happened, Mycroft had been plagued by dreams — Greg kissing him, feeling the man’s hot skin against his own, moving together, revelling in Greg’s strength and scent... he would wake hard and hot, the sheets damp around him.

Worse —so much worse! — were the dreams that weren’t sexual, dreams in which they simply rode their bicycles together or sat together talking or ate together and Greg smiled at him, smiled just for him, and Mycroft felt... so loved... 

It was _devastating_.

The feeling of loss as he woke... Mycroft hadn’t cried since he was four years old, but he found himself with salty tracks down his cheeks and temples, tears tickling his ears and scalp...

He had to get a hold of himself! He ruthlessly crushed the feelings, not allowing himself to linger in bed, to wallow in regret or needy lust. He avoided spending time alone with Lestrade. Mycroft ate lunch with him at races and trained with him a few days each week — in public. They had not been truly alone together since their discussion after the shocking kiss. 

Mycroft stayed away in the evenings, breaking his habit of whiling away the time in Greg’s barn. He missed his friend —missed talking with him, sharing his thoughts and listening to music. He even missed the facile police procedurals Greg loved so much. His evenings were lonely now, spent reading (or attempting to read), and texting with Sherlock in his room.

He knew it upset Lestrade when he refused each invitation, when he turned away from the barn and retreated on his own to Garin House. Mycroft could plainly see that Greg wanted to say something but he bit his tongue, trying to hide his disappointment. 

It hurt to upset Greg so. Mycroft hated to do it. As much as he missed his dear friend, he hated hurting him like this more.

But it could not be helped. Mycroft forced his emotions into the icy reaches of his disciplined mind, and froze them there into glacial stasis. 

He was The Iceman, after all.

\---

Livigno, the site of Mycroft’s training camp, was gorgeous. A skiing and mountain biking mecca, the sky was a clear, bright blue, the snow-capped peaks dramatic and picturesque, and the riding was fantastic. Walking through the hotel lobby, peering out the wall-sized windows at the dazzling scenery, Mycroft felt the tension drain from his jaw and shoulders for the first time since that training ride — only nine days prior.

Mycroft could have sobbed with the relief of it — he worked to keep it from showing on his face or in his stance.

Mummy, Father and Sherlock had travelled to Italy to join him for a long weekend and Mycroft welcomed the reunion with his family. Though they had kept in touch, Mycroft hadn’t seen his brother since he’d returned to England and to school. 

As Mycroft greeted his parents, embracing his mother and accepting his father’s pat on the back, Sherlock’s sharp eyes raked over him and narrowed with suspicion. He could see a change, but — to Mycroft’s vast relief — his brother could not interpret what he saw.

He waited until they were alone in their hotel room to pounce. “What did you do?” Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft blinked. “I’m not sure to what you are referring, brother mine.” He lied, continuing to unpack his duffel.

“You feel guilty.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“No, you do. It’s in your shoulders. And you’ve lost a kilo.”

Mycroft sighed. “The diet… I can’t do it anymore.” This subterfuge had the advantage of being true.

Sherlock sat up like a meerkat, his eyes roving over Mycroft. “But it works.”

“I’d rather starve than eat another rice bar. Or boiled egg.” Mycroft shuddered. “I want cheese. I want baked brie and crackers. I want toast — real toast, not another abhorrent gluten-free facsimile.”

“Are you going to tell Mummy?”

“I suppose I will have to.”

“Or you could just start eating toast.”

“She’d know.”

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed. “It would be an efficient way to alert her.”

Mycroft hid a fond smile. “Is that what you do, Sherlock? Do whatever you want and deal with the fallout later?”

Sherlock thought about it. “Not always. But it is expedient. Your problem, Mycroft…”

“Oh, do enlighten me, Sherlock.”

“Your problem is that you’ve always done what Mummy wants. She’s come to expect it. She doesn’t expect it of me.”

“I should have had the foresight to misbehave fifteen years ago.”

“It’s not too late to start.”

“It might be.”

“What does Lestrade say about it? About your diet?”

Mycroft strove to keep his expression completely blank, shoving down the thrill in his guts at the mere sound of the man’s name. “Why would Lestrade have anything to say about my diet?”

“Uncle Rudy told Mummy that you talk to him.”

“I talk to many people, Sherlock. I’m talking to you right now.”

“He meant that you confide in him.”

“I have not confided the extent of my dissatisfaction with my food plan to Lestrade. When we eat together, we have more important matters to discuss.” 

“He would enjoy helping you to cheat. You could keep ice cream in the freezer in the barn.”

“I said ‘toast.’ How did you get to ‘ice cream?’”

“Slippery slope, Mycroft.”

“Ugh. Mummy will _never_ agree to changing my diet!”

The riding in Livigno was sublime. Whether it was climbing alpine slopes for hours, navigating challenging single track, or skills practice on a wooded mountainside, it was a joy. Of all the things about which Mycroft was discontented, riding his bike erased it all with rapturous pleasure. A day spent on his bike was a good day.

He found he had missed riding with Sherlock as well, missed his odd questions and tangents, missed his passionate embrace of whichever subject had captured his attention lately. As they rode Sherlock told him about how cigarette ash differed by brand, how he’d been attempting to isolate a blood protein that would indicate pancreatic cancer to create an early test for the notoriously asymptomatic malignancy, and how he’d contacted a Scotland Yard detective named Gregson about his theory that the drowning last year was more than simple misadventure.

“This Gregson… how did you meet him?” Mycroft asked.

“I haven’t _met_ him.” Sherlock scoffed. “I’ve _corresponded_ with him.”

“Ah… how do you know he’s actually a police detective?”

“I’m not stupid, Mycroft. I’m not being catfished.”

“How do you know?” Mycroft persisted.

“Because I researched him — I researched all the detectives in the division that handled the drowning case, and ascertained that Gregson wasn’t entirely stupid and would be the most receptive to listening to reason. I emailed him at his Scotland Yard account.”

“And he emailed back?”

“Well… he hasn’t yet.” Sherlock grumbled. “But he will.”

“So… a rather one-sided correspondence.” Mycroft observed drily. “Thus far.” Sherlock had developed the mulish expression that meant he was digging in and was in danger of losing his temper. “I imagine a detective at Scotland Yard is quite busy. And it might take some time to retrieve the files of a past case — especially one that his superiors consider closed. It was ruled an accidental drowning, was it not?”

“But it _wasn’t_!” Sherlock insisted. “Where are his shoes? Did they walk away on their own? I don’t know why or how — yet — but it wasn’t an accident.”

Mycroft thought it over. The missing shoes were an odd loose end. Chances were that they’d been misplaced by the police. Or stolen by another student or someone else with access to the pool. He had to admit, were it his responsibility, that detail would have niggled. Mycroft would have attempted to track down the shoes — which simply meant that it was highly unlikely that Mycroft was cut out to be a police detective. 

However ill-suited Mycroft was to being a policeman, his tempestuous little brother was exponentially less suited. He could not imagine Sherlock following police procedure, abiding by and enforcing rules he found illogical or unfair. Or simply inconvenient. No, better Sherlock stick with bike racing for now. The geometry, physics and biology of the sport should keep him safely occupied.

If only riding didn’t give him hours every day to perseverate on missing shoes and cigarette ash.

\---

|| Greg Lestrade || 18:34  
_How are the Alps, Slim? There is rain in Spain, but not too much._

Mycroft had been in Italy for three days before he received Lestrade’s text from the Amstel team’s training camp. To be fair, he had not texted Lestrade either. He could not think of anything to text that didn’t sound completely stilted and unnatural.

|| The Iceman || 18:58  
_The Alps are glorious. I am reminded that the sun does not shine on Belgium or Britain, nor is the sky blue. I’m sorry that you are experiencing rain._

|| Greg Lestrade || 19:04  
_You aren’t really training for Cyclocross if there isn’t some weather. If you’re too spoiled by sun and sky, you’ll wilt in Schoten._

|| The Iceman || 19:05  
_Sherlock is here. I am not being spoiled._

|| Greg Lestrade || 19:05  
_LOL_  
_I’m almost envious — I’m rooming with Watson this year and the wanker is a card shark. He’s taken all my cash._

|| The Iceman || 19:06  
_You should not gamble, you’re terrible at it. You have thirteen different tells and you bet impulsively. You’re not sensible enough to gamble._

|| Greg Lestrade || 19:07  
_You don’t know that! We’ve never played cards._  
_How do you know that?!_

|| The Iceman || 19:07  
_Please._

It was amazing how good it felt to slip back into the easy intimacy they’d had before Lestrade had so dramatically revealed his inconvenient feelings. Perhaps this was the secret, they could ease back into their friendship via text. Mycroft had missed the camaraderie so much!

|| Greg Lestrade || 19:10  
_Damn, I’ve missed you, Slim!_

It seemed they felt the same — about this at least.

|| Greg Lestrade || 19:19  
_Am I allowed to say that?_

|| The Iceman || 19:22  
_Apologies, I’ve been summoned to dinner. Of course, you miss me — who else would keep you from pissing away your sponsorship euros on cards?_

|| Greg Lestrade || 19:25  
_Gotta have some vices. I gave up drink and fast women._

|| The Iceman || 19:26  
_You go to sleep at 22:00. Fast women gave up on you._  
_Now I must go to dinner. We’re discussing the offers I have received from trade teams. I will apprise you of our conclusion, if any._

|| Greg Lestrade || 19:26  
_Join MY team, Slim. I’m desperate for another roommate. This Watson fellow will take my last euro._  
_Seriously, I know Amstel is interested._

“Sleeping in the same room with you would be a dangerously stupid idea, Greg Lestrade.” Mycroft muttered as he went to join his family for dinner. 

But that was interesting — Lestrade’s team wanted him!

Amstel was the latest sponsor of a cycling team that had thrived in the Low Countries for sixty years — cycling teams took the name of their sponsor, but whilst sponsors came and went, the organisation stayed largely the same. Amstel Test Team specialised in the classics, the brutally difficult one-day races in the Spring. Like all Pro Tour teams, they sent squads to the three three-week Grand Tours, the Giro d’Italia, Tour de France and the Vuelta a España, along with the shorter stage races, but they focussed on winning stages — sprint stages, time trials and stages modelled on the Spring Classics. Amstel Test Team left the high mountain stages to the teams invested in winning the overall.

As a ’cross racer, Mycroft suspected he could hold his own in the classics — Lestrade excelled at them. But Mycroft also knew his physiology was suited to climbing — not just the short, steep Belgian hills, but the long Alpine and Pyrenean climbs featured in the Grand Tours. The ones in which his grandfather, Roman Garin, had specialised.

Mycroft didn’t know if he could develop into a contender to win the overall of a Grand Tour, but he was certain he could win stages.

Amstel Test Team could be a good fit, especially for a developing rider like himself. Lots of opportunities to show himself, to explore his talents. 

And an arm of the team was devoted to Cyclocross. A racer like young Watson would be nurtured by the Cyclocross arm. A rider like Lestrade was given opportunities in both arms of the team. 

“So kind of you to join us, Mycroft.” Mummy sarked when Mycroft arrived.

“Am I late?” He asked, knowing full well he was.

“Never mind, sit down. I spoke to the chef and she has made you baked fish and rice with mixed veg.”

“Mm.” Mycroft attempted not to feel ungrateful — the dish was bound to be more flavourful than his usual fare. The chef here was Michelin starred.

“Don’t pout, Mycroft. It’s unbecoming.”

“I’m not pouting, Mummy. I’m girding my loins for more rice.”

“It does seem unfair, Mummy.” Sherlock interjected. “That Mycroft doesn’t get to have pasta in Italy.”

“Don’t taunt your brother, Sherlock.”

“Northern Italy is better known for its rice dishes than for pasta.” Father commented.

The baked fish was the most delicious thing Mycroft had tasted in years. For once, he did not have to force himself to finish. He ate with pleasure, something he hadn’t experienced outside of fruit and occasionally breakfast in what felt like eons. It was served with a salad of greens and Marcona almonds and a light vinaigrette.

Perhaps he could ask for the recipe.

“We’ve had an offer from Team Sphere.” Mummy announced. Sphere, based in Britain, had the largest budget of any pro tour team. 

“Sphere doesn’t support Cyclocross.”

“You _have_ support for Cyclocross, Mycroft.”

“You intend we go on as we have, you and Father organising everything.” Mycroft’s heart sank. He endeavoured not to allow it to show on his face.

“We already have the bus.” Mummy sighed. “It works to your benefit, being our sole focus.”

Sherlock coughed loudly. Mummy ignored him.

“Sphere has agreed to this arrangement?”

“They will.” Mummy assured him. 

“They _will_? I’m shocked we don’t already have a commitment.”

“Don’t be snippy, Mycroft.”

“What if they do not agree?”

Mummy pressed her lips into a thin line. “You weren’t planning to race cyclocross forever.”

“I’m not planning to do anything _forever_ , Mummy, but I do intend to continue racing ’cross for the foreseeable future.”

Mummy sighed, managing to sound both sceptical and put-upon. 

“Cyclocross is non-negotiable, Mummy.” Mycroft said sharply.

“Nothing is non-negotiable.”

“Oh? Then let’s negotiate my food plan.”

“Not that again! It’s tiresome, Mycroft.”

“Eating the same bloody thing for three years is tiresome.”

“Don’t curse at your mother!”

Mycroft held his temper with great difficulty. Mummy’s frown told him she knew how close he had come to losing it. He set down his fork and arranged it and his knife neatly on his plate. He picked up the contract from Sphere and stood up. “If you will excuse me, I will read this in my room. Goodnight.”

|| The Iceman || 21:10  
_Sphere._

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:14  
_Fancy! Can you race with your little finger in the air?_

|| The Iceman || 21:15  
_Don’t I always?_

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:15  
_Sphere’s a good fit, what with your interest in world domination. You’ll have your own squad of stormtroopers._  
_Didn’t know they were into ’cross. Suppose it was inevitable._

|| The Iceman || 21:17  
_They are not. Mummy intends we continue with team Holmes for cyclocross_

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:19  
_Oh_

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:25  
_Can I be honest?_

|| The Iceman || 21:26  
_Always._

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:26  
_Don’t give up your plan — sign with a team that will support you in ’cross. Get out from under your family’s thumb._

|| The Iceman || 21:28  
_That is the ultimate goal._  
_I do not intend to give it up._

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:28  
_GOOD!_  
_No other teams?_

|| The Iceman || 21:29  
_None that were discussed._

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:29  
_You must have other offers. The Death Star can’t be the only team interested._

|| The Iceman || 21:30  
_I thought the same. I will investigate._

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:32  
_Your family must like the idea of you joining the Evil Armada. ___

|| The Iceman || 21:33  
_It is handsomely remunerative._

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:33  
_You SHOULD be well paid for your soul._

|| The Iceman || 21:34  
_How do you really feel? I’m having difficulty reading the context clues._

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:35  
_That’s me: mysterious and secretive._  
_Watson’s back in the room. He says ‘cheers.’_

|| The Iceman || 21:35  
_DO NOT GAMBLE. You can’t afford it. And you’ll never get to sleep on time._

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:36  
_True... you’ll have to keep texting me until bedtime. Otherwise I’ll be too bored to resist._

|| The Iceman || 21:37  
_What do I want with such a weak-willed creature?_

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:38  
_He doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve hidden his cards._

|| The Iceman ||. 21:38  
_Diabolical._

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:40  
_He’s looking for them._  
_He wants to organise a game._

|| The Iceman || 21:41  
_Resist._  
_Sherlock’s getting pernickety, I should attend to him before he burns down the hotel._

|| Greg Lestrade || 21:41  
_Go give the little drama queen some attention. Talk tomorrow._

Mycroft suppressed a pang of envy for John Watson. He was with Lestrade tonight, talking with him and teasing him. He would fall asleep listening to Greg breathing two metres away. He would wake with Greg, see him soft with sleep, floppy hair tousled. Watson would spend the day riding with Greg...

Lord, he missed his friend! It was an ache in his chest that would not subside.

\---

_Greg’s hand was rough, his calloused palm warm on Mycroft’s arm. He stroked the fair skin from shoulder to elbow._

_Mycroft had never felt anything so intimate. So sweet. He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. He felt himself rolled onto his back, felt Greg’s weight on top of him, pressing him into the mattress. It felt wonderful, Greg’s body on top of his own. He nuzzled Mycroft’s neck, planting kisses along his jaw. His breath was hot and humid and it tickled as Greg ghosted over his ear._

_When had they gotten in bed? Mycroft couldn’t remember, couldn’t remember getting undressed._

_Abruptly Mycroft was certain that Mummy would discover them thus, unclothed and writhing together in the sheets. He jumped up, pulling Greg with him, and hid in the linen press. He could hear her, walking back and forth down the hallway, calling for him._

_“Come on.” Greg tugged his arm and led Mycroft through a door in the back of the linen press into a large, light-filled lounge. Mycroft was surprised and delighted to discover this heretofore unknown room in his house. The sound of the ocean filled his ears but when he went to the windows, Mycroft saw that they overlooked a vast forest._

_The green of the forest was so gloriously beautiful, Mycroft’s heart swelled with joy._

_“I made it that colour for you.” Greg whispered in his ear. “Because I like you.”_

_Mycroft liked Greg too…_

_They raced together, over the forest, their bicycles skimming the tops of the trees. Mycroft felt buoyant and free — he laughed and Greg grinned at him. They flew to a river and followed it towards the ocean…_

_Mycroft was back in the sunlit lounge. He discovered that there was an alcove to one side that contained a bed. Greg touched his back and Mycroft felt his breath on the nape of his neck, felt his lips. Greg guided Mycroft to the bed._

_On the other side of the lounge was another alcove with another bed. Mycroft lay in that bed and Mummy read to him. Foucault. He liked the rhythm of the words, liked Mummy’s voice. She would look over the book at him, gauge how much he understood, gauge his level of sleepiness…_

_Greg moved against him, rubbing his body — his erection — against Mycroft’s. It felt incredible… transcendent…_

_…he was flying over the tops of the trees…_

_…falling asleep to Mummy’s voice, feeling her soft hand feather over his shoulder, his cheek…_

_…he was loved by a man, his friend… his closest companion. He was loved and desired…_

_...it was too much. Mycroft ran. He found a round opening in the wall — a slide down to the forest below. He swung himself into it feet first, preparing to whoosh away..._

_…he was squeezed in a tunnel, trying to slide down its length, pushing against the too-close walls to force himself downwards… it was too close… too long… Mycroft was trapped…_

Gasping into consciousness, Mycroft woke himself up, flailing in his distress. Panicked he struggled to focus... he was in a dark room with pale gold curtains and white walls. Relief left him weak and he lay limply in the pool of sweat on his mattress, gulping air. 

There was no tunnel. Mycroft was not trapped. 

A noise startled him and he rolled over readying himself to flee or fight, adrenaline prickling under his skin. But it was only Sherlock, mumbling in his sleep — in the aftermath of his dream, he had forgotten that he was sharing a hotel room with his brother. Mycroft concentrated on his breath, counting out his inhales and exhales, feeling his body slowly unwind.

What a strange dream! Part of it had been of a kind with the dreams in which he and Greg were lovers — in which Greg loved him… but it had been more than that. 

Mycroft hadn’t thought about how Mummy had read him to sleep when he was young in years… he had adored that time alone with Mummy. He had adored her smiles and the smooth soporific of her voice, adored her attention and the obvious care she took with him.

The last time he had thought about their bedtime ritual had been… oh! His subconscious was trying to tell him something. The last time he had thought about Mummy reading him to sleep, Mycroft had been sitting at the kitchen table across from Mummy and Father listening as his mother told him that if he didn’t give up this “experimentation nonsense” immediately, they would have no choice but to disown him. 

“We would have to protect Sherlock.” Father said. He was unable to meet Mycroft’s eyes.

“It is entirely your choice, Mycroft.” Mummy added, her voice brittle.

He had looked at his mother — her dark curls and pale skin, the mouth and chin she shared with him. In that moment, Mycroft had remembered how she had read to him, her voice and hands gentle as she tucked him in. Mycroft had felt like that little boy, straining to understand Foucault, Sophocles, Hobbes, Locke, Nietzche… he had loved the way her words wrapped around him, held him… but now her words pushed him away…

What would he do without her? Without Mummy and Father and Sherlock and Uncle Rudy? Mycroft had not the first clue.

He could not even envision such isolation! Abruptly, Mycroft realised he was unequipped for the practicalities of life on his own, of making his own way… he tried to imagine what he would do first. Find someplace to stay? He had a basic understanding of how that happened, but he’d never had to arrange his own hotels, never had to rent a flat or — oh god — find a flatshare.

The idea of living with strangers was appalling.

Hotels, flats, food, clothing — not to mention his bikes and gear — it all cost money. Mycroft had no idea how much money those things cost. More, he had no idea how much money he had in his name — if any. There was a bank account… he had logged into the bank’s app once to set it up, but since then he had not thought of it. He knew there was a trust fund that would be his when he was twenty-one, but had only the vaguest inkling of its value.

Mummy and Father had not prepared him for life. They had prepared him for scholarship, for athletic achievement, for thinking deep thoughts and writing and speaking about them. But they had not prepared him to cook his own meals or to wash his own clothes or clean his own room. 

Mycroft did not have a true concept of the value of money — everything had always been provided for him.

He was not ready to be alone.

Mycroft was ashamed of himself. He had thought of himself as an adult — he far exceeded his classmates in intelligence and accomplishments. But he was a _child_.

He had to agree to his parents’ terms. Even if he had felt strongly enough about Phillip to alienate his family, his mother, without their support he would flounder and likely fail. 

His anger over his parents’ ultimatum evaporated in the face of his own mortifying complicity.

That was almost four years ago now. In the interim, Mycroft had not been idle. He had set about filling in the gaps in his education — monitoring his bank account (his income from racing was not inconsiderable, but it was an expensive sport), sitting with Anthea when she booked their hotels, helping her when she washed his kit and when she prepared his food. He had familiarised himself with the costs of living in London, living in Antwerp, Brussels and Amsterdam. Mycroft had built a budget and assessed how much cash he would need to begin a life without his family and had attempted to amass it…

(Had Mummy and Father noticed? Mycroft had become more serious, more withdrawn. Did they simply attribute that to giving up the "experimentation nonsense?") 

But the truth was that Mycroft still did not feel ready to be alone in the world.

He _wanted_ Greg, Mycroft could hardly deny that. But how long would Greg’s love for him last when faced with a Mycroft cut adrift, attempting to navigate the myriad tasks and hassles of daily life? A Mycroft mourning his family, embarking on untrod roads, stumbling into independence like a fawn on ice?

No, it was safer — saner — to toe the line his family had drawn. Mummy and Sherlock were a certainty. Greg Lestrade was a will-o-the-wisp, a hinkypunk, a flickering lantern in the dark leading him off the sure path, only to disappear leaving him lost and alone. 

Mycroft had made a decision at the kitchen table that day. He would abide by it.

The next day, when Lestrade texted, Mycroft turned off his phone. _All things end_ , he reminded himself. The hollow ache in his chest would end. Until then, he could bear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Bit'o'angst this week. Thank you all for your encouraging comments! There's no bike racing to watch (or participate in) right now, but at least you can read about it.
> 
> Stay safe and healthy, everyone!


	8. VLAAMSE DRUIVENCROSS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training camps are done and the racers return to Belgium for one last race before the many consecutive races over Christmas and New Year’s.

After the long weekend in Italy Mother and Father had taken Sherlock home to Britain to sit his exams, leaving Mycroft and Uncle Rudy to continue training. The three Holmeses would join them for the start of Christmas week Cyclocross — there were races almost every day from December 21 through January 5 including two World Cup races and three races in the DVV Trofee series. Mycroft loved Christmas week — race after race after race. And he loved the small break in his diet on Christmas Eve! Plumb pudding for everyone!

In the interim, Mycroft would shake the cobwebs from his legs by racing at the Vlaamse Druivencross.

Vlaamse Druivencross was part of the DVV series where Greg, by missing the first few races, had not yet achieved placement in the first row —though he was close, lining up behind Mycroft in the second row. Greg would hardly be hindered by a second row start on this course, Mycroft thought. It would suit him down to the ground.

He and Greg had eaten lunch together before the race as was their habit — they had not seen each other but for a brief hello when Greg had returned from Spain two days prior. When Mycroft joined him at the table, Greg lit up. It moved him, Greg’s delight, and he had to remind himself sternly that he must not encourage his friend. 

He _could not be with Greg_ , it was impossible. Greg should not look so hopeful.

Mercifully, Greg’s buoyant expression dimmed when Marcel Maier, the German champion, sat down next to Mycroft. 

“Holmes, I have one for you.” Marcel said in German. 

“Ja?” Mycroft answered. He was fluent in German and though Marcel spoke impeccable English and some French, the Flemish and Dutch of the majority of the riders (which were, but for some pronunciation and vocabulary differences, the same language) left him nodding and smiling blankly. He looked for excuses to converse in his mother tongue. Mycroft was generally willing to indulge him — Marcel was a fine-looking man, blonde and blue-eyed with symmetrical Aryan features. Mycroft was not made of stone.

Whilst he was still racing in the junior ranks, Mycroft had come across Marcel one night in a hotel, nude but for pristinely white Y-fronts, his cock a heavy line inside the fabric. It was, at the time, the single most erotic episode in his life — he had masturbated furiously for weeks afterwards. Mycroft still felt a flush of pleasure whenever Marcel smiled at him.

Marcel leaned close enough that his plum-coloured puffer jacket brushed Mycroft’s shoulder, and he felt his cheeks heat. He wondered if Marcel were aware of the effect he had on him — if so, he hid the awareness well.

Greg’s eyebrows drew down, his eyes sharp. He was _very_ aware of Mycroft’s dishabille, and not at all pleased about it.

_“Why do the British swear all the bloody time, but Germans do not?”_

Mycroft smiled, charmed by the man’s eager warmth. _“Because in Germany everything works as it should?”_

Marcel threw back his head and laughed, slapping Mycroft on the back — his hand lingering. _“Yes! Exactly. I knew you would get it, Holmes!”_

Mycroft chuckled along. Marcel’s exuberance cheering him. He asked Marcel in which races he planned to compete over the holidays and spent five minutes comparing schedules.

When the German left, Greg was scowling. If looks could kill, Marcel would have been bleeding from many wounds.

“Apologies for conversing in German.” Mycroft said, turning back to Greg. “Marcel does not have much Flemish.”

“God forbid you use English or French.” Greg sounded downright bitter.

“Is something wrong?” Mycroft asked pointedly. 

Greg looked startled then guilty. “No... no... just didn’t realise you knew him so well.”

“I don’t.”

“Could have fooled me.” Greg muttered.

“I’m one of a handful of people on the ‘cross circuit that speaks German well.” Mycroft looked into Greg’s eyes, pinning him in place. “You have no call — you have no _right_ — to be jealous.”

Misery bowed Greg’s head, made his shoulders sag. “Don’t be cruel...”

John Watson joined them then. Mycroft was grateful to have the other man there to diffuse the tension — and the awkward confusion that, despite his efforts at chilling his emotions (and Greg’s) he still felt in the other man’s presence. Watson kept the conversation firmly away from anything more personal than recovery after a strenuous training camp.

Greg’s good nature revived itself, and he teased Watson. “This one, he is on the pull _all the time._ ” Greg told Mycroft. “We stop to fill our water bottles and he’s chatting up a girl — any girl! Every girl!”

Watson blushed. “She can’t say ‘yes’ unless you ask.”

“Did someone say ‘yes?’” Greg laughed. He winked at Mycroft who smiled, amused. “At least it improved his tragic Spanish.”

It was so good to spend time with his friend!

\---

On the line, Mycroft handed his coat over to Uncle Rudy. It was cold — negative one with a nasty wind chill — but it was dry. The hard, frozen ground would be fast and a crash would hurt like pavement. And there was ice, he knew, on more than one section of the course. It would be carnage.

It was a long course with lots of sweeping curves and a few vertical slopes roughly three metres high. Two weren’t rideable, climbing up them felt more like climbing a ladder than a slope — climbing a ladder carrying a bike. During the Women’s Elite race, more than one racer had lost her footing and slid to the bottom.

Thijs Vanthorenhout was resplendent in the leader’s skinsuit. As this series overall was scored by time not points, if Mycroft finished thirteen seconds in front of Thijs, he could take the lead today — it was possible, Mycroft simply had to find a way to ride away from the other racers. He’d done it often enough in the U23 races last year. But Vanthourenhout was strong, and his orange posse had come out in force to protect their team leader — they’d block Mycroft as much as possible.

The whistle blew and Mycroft sprinted!

For the first time in the Elite races, Mycroft got the hole shot! (All that time training his sprint in Livigno had not been wasted!) He was first into the corner. The course swept around in a lazy ‘S’ curve that abruptly turned into a series of 180s. By the time he rounded the first, doubling back, he saw there had already been crashes. After the first twelve or fifteen riders, men were running, pushing their bikes, too crowded together to remount. He looked for Lestrade, eyes sweeping the racers behind him — he thought he caught a flash of a white jersey with rainbow rings under a silver helmet — but then Mycroft was grabbing hold of the post delineating the next 180 and using it to swing around the corner. 

He _had_ seen Lestrade! He had shot through the crush of the sprint into the top ten! 

Mycroft led to the first vertical climb, dismounting smoothly as he approached, shouldering his bike as he began to climb. It was impossible! His feet slipped on the frozen ground and he clung to the plastic netting that edged the course. He hauled himself up, one-armed, scrambling for footholds. It wasn’t fast or pretty, but no one else was climbing it more quickly — even if they could, Mycroft’s bike was in their way.

Finally, he gained the top and leapt upon his bike. Mycroft rode across the off-camber, unclipping and extending his leg as an instinctive counterweight. It took him to a slope just as impossibly steep as the one he had climbed, and he plunged down. A thrill of fear prickled his insides as he pushed his weight backwards, hovering over the saddle, using his knees as shock absorbers, to avoid overbalancing and flipping over his handlebars. 

Safely on horizontal ground Mycroft sped to the flyover, dismounting and running up the stairs. Swooping down the other side he cornered, then straightened his wheels to coast over a trench of frozen mud — any shift of weight would send a rider immediately to the ground. In fact, Mycroft heard the sound of racers crashing behind him.

As the second steep pitch loomed in front of him, Mycroft swung his leg over his bike and coasted with his foot on the pedal to the base. He hoisted his bike and again, attacked the vertical climb. The earlier races had worn some footholds into the face, but there was also evidence of riders falling and slipping. He levered himself up, grabbing a handful of earth as he searched for another handhold. He felt other racers behind and beside him. 

At the top, his panting breaths were loud in his head. He rode the extended off-camber descent into another long ‘S’ curve to the hurdles. He bunny hopped them on his bike easily and shot into the woods. 

The course wove through the trees, the path narrow and slippery. It must have rained before the temperature dropped — in the shade of the trees, all the moisture had turned to ice, an almost invisible sheen on the path. Mycroft skidded, his wheels sliding out from under his bike. He managed to unclip and get a foot on the ground before he lost control completely, but the bobble slowed him enough that Vermeersch and Vanthourenhout passed him.

Vermeersch led them out of the trees and they sped down to the shore of the lake. The sand was most solid right next to the water, but it was also icy at the edge and wet — his wheels threw stinging drops of freezing water up Mycroft’s back. It was treacherous, skimming through the shallow water over patches of ice.

Vermeersch rode over a longer patch and very abruptly crashed, his wheels losing traction on the ice and his bike slipping sideways. Mycroft was forced to swerve into the water to get around him, one of his feet submerged as he pedalled, soaking his shoe and sock. It was so cold it took his breath away! His foot ached with it.

Vanthourenhout did not look back. He raced along the water’s edge until the course took them inland into looser sand and around a sharp corner. The sand there was deep, but with a cement curb underneath that could surprise the unwary. Vanthourenhout attempted to ride through the dry sand around the corner and floundered. Mycroft dismounted and pushed his bike through the shifting sand. His wet foot came out caked in the stuff, but he exited a metre in front of his rival.

He caught a glimpse of the five racers on his wheel, Vanthourenhout and one of his orange-clad lieutenants, two from other teams and Lestrade! Mycroft attacked as he remounted on the pavement, opening up a few metres gap. He built up momentum in order to ride up the steep slope ahead — almost as steep as the ones they’d had to climb, but not quite. Shifting into his easiest gear and standing on his pedals, Mycroft laboured to the top without unclipping or stopping and dropped down the other side. It immediately swooped up again, the path off-camber. Mycroft again dismounted and ran his bike up the hill — it was rideable, but would take a lot of energy, energy Mycroft might need later in the race. 

Because he ran, all the riders behind him were forced to do the same whether they wanted to or not. Gaining the top, Mycroft remounted his bicycle and followed the path back into the forest, skidding on dead leaves in the corners. He jumped a fallen log, rode another up-down-up, this one shallower and easier, and swung around onto the start/finish.

He was first across the line, but Lestrade, Vanthourenhout, Wurst, Van Anrooij, and Drucker soon joined him, Wurst going to the front for Vanthourenhout, Lestrade dropping to the back, watchful. Mycroft made certain to get between Vanthourenhout and his lieutenant, arcing gracefully through the lazy ‘S’ curve on Wurst’s wheel. 

Mycroft was watching for the right place to attack again, watching for Wurst to make a mistake on the hazardous course so he could take advantage. The crawl-climb up the frozen hillside was harder in second place than it had been in first — and exhausting. Mycroft wasn’t looking forward to climbing it six or seven more times. Especially as he could no longer feel his wet foot.

He rode the off-camber, trying to get to the descent first — he didn’t relish following anyone down that vertical plunge. Wurst paused at the top, girding himself, and Mycroft took the opportunity, diving down first. He attacked hard, took the steps of the flyover two at a time, and pedalled furiously on the way down. He rode into the icy ditch and back out again without trouble — though he once again heard someone behind him curse and brake.

Mycroft tried to put some real distance between himself and his competitors in the trees. There were so many turnings, it would be relatively simple to get far enough ahead to be out of sight of the other racers...

If he got far enough ahead, the other racers would stop chasing him and start looking at each other — no one would want to work to bring Mycroft back, just to watch the racer sitting on his wheel win. Wurst would ride for Vanthourenhout, but when he tired, the chase would end. Instead, they would attack each other over and over fighting for the lesser places on the podium.

He sprinted hard, trying to open the gap, trying to extend it. Weaving through the forest, Mycroft hit every line perfectly. He felt a sort of zen descend — he’d felt this way last year when he’d ridden away from the U23 field, he hadn’t known if he’d ever feel it in the elites...

Shooting around a tree, Mycroft almost hit a stump in the middle of the path. It was spray painted orange for visibility and there were viable lines to either side of it — left side was the faster line, but he was pushing his speed to the limit of his ability on this course and knew he’d hit the stump if he tried for it. He stayed right.

The sound behind him — the screech of brakes, a shouted curse, carbon impacting and cracking — told him that whoever was chasing him had hit the stump.

This was Mycroft’s chance! He sprinted down to the water, skimming the lake’s edge where the sand was firmest. Once again, he dismounted and ran through the unstable sand, around the 180-degree corner. As he gained the pavement and leapt upon his bike, he saw Vanthourenhout and Drucker still riding by the water’s edge — the others had been held up by the crash!

Mycroft spent the rest of the lap, working as hard as he could to increase the gap between himself and his chasers. By the time he reached the start/finish line Uncle Rudy signed to him that he was twenty-two seconds ahead. Indeed, as he arced into the first corner, he caught sight of the other racers just coming onto the pavement. Twenty-two seconds was good, but he had to maintain and increase it over the next six laps!

He continued to attack the course, ignoring the pain in his lungs and legs. He climbed the vertical hills as efficiently as possible and did not hesitate on the off-cambers — Mycroft knew how to ride the course now and he made the most of it. 

Back into the trees, he slowed very slightly for safety — after his efforts he did not want to crash and lose time!

Coming around the tree to where the stump presented a hazard, Mycroft was extra careful — and he was glad of it! He almost hit a man in red and yellow gear standing inside the course barriers — emergency personnel! As he sped past, he caught the scene in a flash: two more emergency personnel bent over a racer prone on the ground. The glare of a space blanket spread over the downed rider to keep him warm. That didn’t bode well — a rider would get up and walk off the course if he were able.

Then in a second flash, Mycroft saw a bike. It was leaned up against the long Jupiler beer banner that edged the course, the top tube cracked and bent at an unnatural angle, rainbow rings wrapping around the damaged frame — _World Champion’s rainbow rings_!

The bike was Greg’s!

Was that _Greg_ lying too still on the ground under a silver space blanket?!

Mycroft’s zen evaporated.

As he churned on, weaving through the forest, a sick feeling gripped his guts. Mycroft wanted to stop, to turn around and see if Greg were OK. But he couldn’t. _He couldn’t_.

What would he do if he did stop? Nothing but get in the way of the people who knew how to help him. 

But he had been _so still_!

No, he told himself — he’d only seen the downed racer for less than a second. He didn’t know if the man lay still or not. He didn’t even know for certain that it was Greg. It was his bike, but that didn’t mean he was the one who needed paramedics. Greg could have limped away from the broken bike, be in his team van right now.

Mycroft barely remembered the rest of the race. His only goal was to finish as quickly as possible — win this race and discover who had crashed and where Greg was.

He no longer felt the effort. Mycroft floated through the course, up and down over ice and sand, water and cement, crawling up the steep hillsides and keeping his weight perfectly balanced in the icy ditch. There was a roaring in his ears. It might have been his breathing.

By the next time Mycroft raced through the forest, the emergency personnel, downed rider and broken bike were gone. But a silver helmet lay abandoned in the dirt. 

With perfect recall, Mycroft conjured the racers behind him in the first lap. Only Greg wore a silver helmet.

The race was an interminable eight laps. Mycroft never saw any of the other racers again — he had ridden away from Vanthourenhout and Drucker, away from the orange men, Wurst, Van Anrooij and all the others. The only riders he saw were the ones he caught and lapped, and they pulled deferentially aside to let him pass. 

The pleasure he usually took from racing was absent.

Mycroft won the race. Approaching the line for the final time, he didn’t slow down, he didn’t post up — the only celebration, the only acknowledgment that he was triumphant was a briefly raised hand.

Uncle Rudy and Anthea were waiting for him, his UCI chaperone behind them. Uncle Rudy took his bike and pushed him towards the warming tent. Mycroft stumbled — he couldn’t feel his wet foot. Anthea got her shoulder under his arm and helped him hobble after his chaperone into the warming tent. A race official was waiting for Mycroft — he shoved an iPad into his hands to sign, to certify his win. Then he was urged along into the tent and given a bottle of water and a towel.

“Anthea,” Mycroft sat heavily and wrapped the towel around his shoulders. He watched as she unfastened his shoe, releasing the ratchet lock and pulling it from his foot. “Anthea, Greg crashed — Lestrade — do you know what happened to him? Was he injured?”

She looked at him a question on her lips. But something in his face silenced her queries. “Let me find out.” She said. “As soon as I finish with you.” She rolled his sodden sock off. His foot was dead white and tinged with blue. She chafed it to get his blood flowing. 

Someone unfastened his helmet and took it. Mycroft leaned back in the chair, tense. The blood returning to his foot felt like fire burning it from the inside out. He gritted his teeth against the pain. 

Thijs Vanthourenhout came into the tent, followed by Drucker, their people and their chaperones. A cameraman followed the crowd in and began filming Mycroft. He gave Vanthourenhout a tight nod. Uncle Rudy put a recovery drink in his hand.

Anthea gave him warm, dry socks and trainers 

Still clutching the towel for warmth, Mycroft was pushed into the interviewees chair. His chaperone bobbed nervously behind the lights.

The first journalist, a Belgian, wasn’t quite ready. As they waited for his cameraman to sort himself, the journalist congratulated Mycroft.

“Stunning win, Mycroft. Good show.”

Mycroft smiled thinly. “Thank you. Do you know what happened to Lestrade? I saw he’d gone down on the course.”

“Yeah, of course. Took him to hospital. Word is concussion — he was conscious and talking also, but not... entirely coherent.”

Nodding, Mycroft felt a strange mix of relief and anxiety. The bright light snapped on and the cameraman pointed the lenses at him and Mycroft had to focus on answering the journalist’s questions.

“That was an amazing display of strength, Mycroft. What were you thinking out there?”

“I was concentrating on the course. It was icy, which is a challenge. I had thirteen seconds to make up on Vanthourenhout, so I knew I had to get away from him...”

Mycroft completed the interviews by rote, barely paying attention. Afterwards, as he changed for the podium, his mind circled in an endless loop — he needed to know more about Greg’s condition! Head injuries were serious — they could be fatal! Greg could be brain injured... or in a coma! 

He wished he had his phone! He could have texted Greg.

The podium ceremony was endless and Mycroft struggled to smile for the cameras. He was presented with the usual bouquet, a medal and a stuffed badger wearing a white leader’s jersey. He forced himself not to tap his foot with impatience.

After, Alun was there with Uncle Rudy, taking the flowers and the badger so Mycroft could return to the stage to receive the leader’s jersey. He searched the nearby faces for Anthea — where was the damned woman!? 

Thijs Vanthourenhout paused on his way to his wife. “I’m getting that jersey back, you know.” He said, poking Mycroft’s shoulder.

“What? Oh, yes. The jersey.” Mycroft attempted to focus on Thijs.

“You ok, Holmes?” 

“I’m perfectly fine.” 

“What is wrong?” He prodded.

Mycroft frowned. “The crash in the second lap... did you see who went down?”

Vanthourenhout looked thoughtful. “Don’t know about Van Anrooij, but Tom Wurst for sure, and Lestrade.”

“How is Tom?” Wurst was Vanthourenhout’s teammate. 

“Hacked off he had to DNF.”* Vanthourenhout told him. “I hear they took Lestrade to hospital, but not why. Hope it’s not a collarbone or anything that will side line his season.”

Mycroft nodded, clamping down on his frustration. “Thank you, Thijs.”

The dread was overwhelming. 

He returned to the stage to receive the jersey. Mycroft had no idea why the podium jersey was a half-zip — it meant he had to pull it on over his head and tug it into place over his thick winter British Champion’s jersey. The presenter zipped it for him, his finger accidentally chucking Mycroft under the chin. He almost bit the man’s hand off. 

Instead he smiled tightly out at the crowd as the photographers clicked away. 

Afterward, his chaperone led him to the testing tent. He sat down to fill out the paperwork, finishing his bottle of water so he could produce enough urine. Drucker was still there, labouring over the forms. He wanted to talk about the race. 

“I was lucky to get around Lestrade — who puts a stump in the middle of a racecourse!? I almost didn’t catch Vanthourenhout, but when I did, he would not work with me.”

“You saw the crash? How did it happen?”

“Wurst was chasing you for Vanthourenhout and he tried to swerve around the bloody stump and slid out. Lestrade was behind him, he hit the thing head on and went over his handlebars. Vanthourenhout got through, but a bike bounced into my path and I had to ride over it, so he got away. But I caught him pretty quick.” Drucker grinned. “My first podium this season.”

“Well done.” Mycroft muttered. Drucker didn’t know how Lestrade had landed, how his helmet had been crushed. Had he hit a tree? The ground?

The technician watched as Mycroft urinated in a sterile cup and transferred the fluid to the proper tubes and sealed them. They drew blood today as well. After, the tech unlocked the chain wrapped around the refrigerator and opened it so Mycroft could deposit his samples in its depths. Then the chain was relocked — they did everything they could to avoid sabotage, accidental or purposeful, including making the racers the only person to handle their own samples.

Finally free, Mycroft found Uncle Rudy outside the testing tent with his overcoat. He put it on gratefully.

He didn’t see Anthea until they arrived at the Holmes bus. She had the name of the hospital to which Greg had been taken, but no information about his condition. “The rumours are concussion. But no one really knows. His people are gone — with him, I assume — and his teammates are in the dark. Hospital’s not giving out any information.”

Mycroft thanked her and climbed onto the bus, reclaiming his phone. There were no new messages.

|| The Iceman || 17:01  
 _Greg, how are you? Are you in hospital?_

He waited for an answer in vain. 

Mycroft wanted to insist Anderson drive directly to the hospital. But he didn’t even know if Greg was still there. Or if he’d be welcome.

He thought about what a tosser he’d been, gabbing on with Marcel in German, letting Greg sit there, letting him stew. Why had he done that? Greg had been nothing but kind and accommodating, backing off when Mycroft asked, understanding his fears and accepting his restrictions. Why had he been such an arse in return?! 

Mycroft did not _deserve_ a friend like Greg Lestrade. 

He felt panic taking root. Waves of nausea swept over him, turning his bowels to water and making his recovery shake roil and threaten to erupt. His mouth filled with saliva and he was hot. Too hot.

|| The Iceman || 17:33  
 _I’m worried about you._

Mycroft could not shake the image of Greg lying unmoving under the space blanket.

It was an hour to Schoten. When they arrived, Greg’s barn was dark. 

Mycroft helped unload the bus, carrying his bikes into the basement via the doors set in the ground and the stairwell underneath. He showered and lay down until Anthea came to call him for dinner. 

“I’m not feeling well.” He told her. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

Her lovely brow furrowed. “I should take your temperature. Your mother will want to know if you have a fever.”

“I’m sure I don’t.” Mycroft said wearily. “I just need some rest.”

Anthea pressed her hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Let me do your legs now and maybe you’ll feel up to some food afterwards.”

Mycroft gave up. They would not leave him alone, they never left him alone. Father would skype to go over the fine points of the race — he and Mummy watched on the internet — and if Mummy heard he wasn’t eating she wouldn’t rest — or allow him to rest — until she found out why.

As he stripped off for the massage, he checked his phone again. Nothing. He opened his Twitter app and searched for Greg’s team… no announcements. He searched for #greglestrade and found hundreds of tweets about the crash — how brutal it looked on telly, how relieved people were to see him conscious, good wishes for a speedy recovery — but nothing substantive! Nothing that told him how Greg was _right now_!

Ultimately, Mycroft was cajoled into soup and rice. He did know how important it was to fuel appropriately… but he just wanted to be left alone.

“Checking your phone again.” Uncle Rudy noted. Mycroft flushed and returned to his meal. “I have the race queued up on the laptop.” He said. They watched all of Mycroft’s races, noting what had gone well and what hadn’t, studying the other riders…

“Play it.” Mycroft commanded. He had been impatient for the race to become available to stream. He needed to see the crash!

Supressing his desire to fast forward to the second lap, Mycroft sat through ten endless minutes. He watched himself labour up the vertical climb — he didn’t look near as clumsy as he had expected. Greg climbed it gracefully, making it look easy — and he climbed it faster than Mycroft had. If he hadn’t been stuck in the second row to start, Mycroft would have been chasing after him the entire race.

They showed Vermeersch’s crash on the ice by the lake twice and Mycroft was amazed that he’d got around it — he’d come within millimetres of being taken out by Vermeersch’s leg, his wheel, his spinning bike. 

Vanthourenhout looked rankled when Mycroft sprinted past him in the deep sand. Greg sat calmly on Vanthourenhout’s wheel whilst Wurst took up the chase. Mycroft watched them navigate the rest of the course, watched them change positions on the finishing straight, watched them tackle the impossible climb again, saw himself pass Wurst. Greg passed Vanthourenhout soon after, settling in on Wurst’s wheel as they all chased after Mycroft into the woods. He could see himself pushing the envelope, taking the corners too fast, skating over icy mud and somehow keeping it upright.

The cameras tracked them through the woods. Mycroft had a bike length on the group and he could see Wurst was tiring. He watched himself fly past the stump then heard the sickening noise of the crash. He waited with baited breath as the commentators speculated and the director found the footage…

They played it at normal speed first, then in slow motion: Wurst just nicking the stump and going down, Lestrade, on his wheel, hitting it full on and flying through the air, cartwheeling over his handlebars and landing head-first at the base of a tree. 

Drucker had indeed ridden over Greg’s bike, but it had cracked when it impacted on the stump itself.

The race continued, the camera finding Mycroft running through the deep sand.

Mycroft stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back with his legs and hearing it scrape on the floor. “Apologies, Uncle. I’m feeling poorly…” He didn’t wait to hear the answer. He locked himself in the loo and stayed there until the house was quiet.

When he went to his room, Mycroft didn’t bother undressing. He lay on his bed watching Amstel Test Team’s Twitter and Facebook page for news on Greg’s condition praying that Greg would return his texts. He combed the internet for information.

Cycling News, Peloton Magazine, Cyclocross Magazine and Velonews all had reported on the crash — World Cyclocross Champion and winner of Brabantse Pijl and Amstel Gold crashing out of a race and being rushed to hospital was big news. There were no updates about his condition.

The image of Greg crumpling on the ground like a rag doll played over and over in his head. Mycroft could not bear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like losing someone to make one realise how much they mean. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading and commenting! I appreciate your reactions and encouragement greatly!
> 
> ****
> 
> *DNF = Did Not Finish


	9. GARIN HOUSE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft discovers the extent of Greg’s injuries — and his own feelings.

_Mummy was beautiful. With her cascade of black curls and pale skin she would not be out of place in a Sargent painting or even — though Mycroft would never tell her — a romance novel. But the shrewd intelligence in her grey eyes took her beyond mere beauty. Mummy was magnificent!_

_Mycroft loved her with all the passion in his little body. He sat next to her on the divan and read Machiavelli whilst Mummy pored over her manuscript making notations. She smelled nice — wool and ink and figs._

_“Mycroft, darling, have you finished your book already?”_

_“Yes, Mummy.”_

_“Well, sit on my lap and help me proofread these galleys.” Mycroft adored sitting on Mummy’s lap — even though he was a big boy now. Five was too old for coddling, but just old enough to help Mummy._

_Mummy’s book solved a mathematical problem, and proposed several new unsolved problems. The numbers and equations made sense to Mycroft, they knitted themselves together so elegantly, they were a joy to read — he even had a theory about how to begin solving Mummy’s second problem — but maths didn’t open up the world for him the way philosophy did. No, he did not have Mummy’s passion for maths… but he adored being allowed into her world…_

_His small finger trailed across the page as he read, the numbers flowing together in his mind. The logic was pure, pristine... oh! He stopped, his finger pointing to a formula that was _wrong_. “Mummy.” Mycroft said. “Look.”_

_She frowned at the formula, assessing the symbols and numbers that led to where Mycroft’s finger rested. Abruptly her features cleared. “Mycroft! My clever boy!” She crowed, kissing his forehead. She crossed out a portion of the proof and began writing furiously in the margins, correcting the flawed logic. As she worked, she kept one arm around Mycroft, holding him close._

_He felt proud that he had helped Mummy. Mycroft snuggled against her as she worked, feeling valued and cherished. No one else could help Mummy like Mycroft could — and no one else understood Mycroft like Mummy. No one could, no one else was like them._

_It made the shame all the more piquant._

_He was taller than both Mummy and Father, so when they sent him to his room, disappointment dripping from their tight features, Mycroft almost laughed. He hadn’t been sent to his room in a decade!_

_He hadn’t laughed. Behind his incredulity, fury was trying to shove to the fore. Mummy could see it, Mycroft’s anger, his challenge — her eyes narrowed further and her mouth flattened. He flinched as if she had struck him. She may as well have. Mycroft would have preferred it to being cut by her gaze._

_It was devastating. Mummy was unrecognisable, a cold stranger looking at Mycroft as if he were naught but dirt on her shoe._

_It had been so warm in her lap. Her praise had lifted him, her approval filled him with such happiness!_

_Mycroft would do anything to go back, to never feel the self-loathing and shame of Mummy’s disappointment._

_His room was not his room in Holmescroft — it was smaller and darker. Colder. Mycroft could hear Mummy speaking with Father, her voice crisp with emotion. They were talking about him, about his future..._

_Mycroft sailed away, his bicycle next to him on the deck. He had Anthea’s rice cakes in his jersey pockets and his favourite cycling shoes, the bright red ones. The cleats tap-tapped as he walked along the deck. It was a large ship, and it creaked and groaned as it moved in the water._

_There was no land in sight. Mycroft crossed the deck, but as far as he could see in every direction, grey sky met grey ocean. He remembered setting off, the pomp on the dock as he’d climbed the gangplank, Mummy’s rictus of disgust as she turned away — she’d railed about the rough sailors, about how they’d ruin Mycroft with their deviant appetites... but he’d been excited as the sails were raised and they left harbour. Excited to be his own man finally, excited for adventure... but as Mycroft stood on the creaking deck, he realised that his excitement had long faded._

_He was alone on the ship._

_That wasn’t right. Mycroft had been sent away, banished from his home, but he’d looked forward to learning about the other passengers, getting to know some of them — there had been so many interesting and attractive men... surely there was someone who would talk to him. Even rough treatment from a filthy sailor in the bowels of the ship would be welcome companionship._

_Mummy was right! He was repulsive. The shame was bitter in his mouth. Bitter like semen._

_Oh! Mycroft was lonely in the centre of the ocean._

_In the captain’s cabin, Mycroft found quills and an inkpot and a quantity of fine paper. He began a letter to Sherlock. He thought to write about the voyage, the sights... but all Mycroft had seen was water and sky. He missed his brother. He missed his home._

_In the end, there was no way to send the letter — not even a bottle he could use to carry his missive bobbing through the waves. He let the leaves of paper drop from his fingers into the waves. They left a trail behind the ship, breadcrumbs for Sherlock to follow... if he hadn’t forgotten Mycroft entirely._

_Mycroft sailed away, his bicycle next to him on the deck. He had Anthea’s rice cakes in his jersey pockets and his favourite cycling shoes, the bright red ones. The cleats tap-tapped as he walked along the deck. It was a large ship, and it creaked and groaned as it moved in the water._

_The grey ocean met the grey sky._

_Mycroft was alone._

...

For a moment after he woke, Mycroft lay overwhelmed and bereft, captive to the emotion in his dream.

Then sound penetrated his lonely cocoon and he sat up. He was dressed and lay on top of the duvet — memory returned in a rush, Lestrade! Injured! And Mycroft didn’t know how badly.

The sound was of a car pulling into the drive.

Mycroft was out of bed in an instant, peering out his window. It was the Amstel Test Team van.

As Mycroft flew downstairs, he glanced at the clock — half one! He barely held himself back from bursting out into the courtyard and demanding to see Lestrade. Mycroft needed to put his hands on him and peer into his eyes until he could satisfy himself that his friend was alive and well.

He stuffed his feet into his boots and retrieved his overcoat and donned it. Instead of flinging open the door, Mycroft forced himself to take a moment and composed himself carefully, straightening his clothing and patting his auburn waves into a semblance of order. He checked his reflection in the mudroom mirror to see if his breathless, panicked excitement showed on his face. The man who looked back at him was a stranger — a vulnerable, frightened stranger.

He heard doors slamming, voices. Mycroft opened the door calmly and joined them.

Greg looked up, his eyes glinting in the moonlight, and stared dully at Mycroft. He sighed, a forlorn sound in the cold night air.

“Greg.” Mycroft found his voice. “How are you?” He stepped closer and saw the bruise on Greg’s left cheekbone, the skin around his eye just beginning to darken and swell. Mycroft clasped his hands behind his back to keep himself from touching the man.

“Tired.” Greg answered and Mycroft twigged that he’d been asleep in the van. 

Boy Hermans was lifting one of Greg’s bikes from the back of the van and Benny, Greg’s soigneur, was hoisting his duffel.

“Come on, Greg, let’s get you inside.” Benny said, taking Greg by the arm gently. 

Greg locked eyes with Mycroft and the unfiltered need in them burned. He opened his mouth to speak but Mycroft’s throat swelled and he could barely breathe through the intensity.

Benny tugged on Greg’s elbow and they turned towards the barn. 

Only then could Mycroft fill his lungs. Greg, he noted, was limping.

Mycroft opened the outside basement door for Boy Hermans and helped him stow Greg’s bikes and gear, the rote chores soothing his jagged mood. There wasn’t much of it, most would still be with the team, held whilst Greg was taken to hospital. 

When they’d finished, Mycroft and Boy Hermans walked together to the barn. 

Greg was sitting on his couch with his left leg up, an icepack on his knee. He wore warm up trousers branded with the name of the hospital in which he’d been treated, and a long-sleeved Amstel cycling jersey unzipped to reveal a white Under Armor base layer. His trainers lay on the floor and Greg’s green puffer jacket was draped over the back of the couch. He still wore a grey watch cap over his dark hair. Benny was filling the electric kettle with water.

Greg looked up when they came in, his eyes following Mycroft into the room. Mycroft felt something inside his chest tear and flood and he barely held himself together. He tried to speak, but his throat closed again, choking off the words.

Boy Hermans took in the scene, glancing from Greg to Mycroft and back again. “Do you need anything, Greg?” He asked.

“I’m good, coach.” Greg said, his voice rough with sleep.

The coach nodded. “Benny.” He called. “Let’s get going. Holmes can make tea if Greg wants it.” He shot a knowing look at Mycroft — a look that at any other time would have sent him into a panicked retreat, but tonight it did not matter in the least. Only one thing mattered now. “Greg — talk to you tomorrow. Call me, yes?”

“Yeah. Thanks, coach.” Greg mumbled. “Thanks for taking care of me, Benny.”

“No problem, kid.” Benny chucked the racer on the shoulder on his way to the door. “Don’t stress that knee.”

Mycroft tore his eyes from Greg and bid the coach and soigneur goodbye. He locked the door after they had left and leaned his forehead against the wood. He stayed there listening to the van start up and drive away.

“My?”

Mycroft turned back to his friend. “You’re hurt. How badly are you hurt?” The words tumbled out, anxious and rushed.

“I’m OK.” Greg asserted. He stared at Mycroft, searching him for signs of his intent. “I, erm, heard you won. Congratulations.”

“Nothing could matter less!” Mycroft exclaimed. Haltingly he stepped forwards, hovering at the end of the couch.

For a moment, Greg’s face showed his naked desire — an inferno that wanted to consume him, consume them both. Mycroft faltered — he was unworthy, undeserving of such passion. 

He was afraid. 

Mycroft dropped his gaze to his hands where they twisted together, betraying his nerves. He forced them to be still. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Greg offered.

“No! I couldn’t sleep.” 

A smile ghosted over Greg’s handsome features. “No?”

“I was worried about you.” Mycroft admitted. He stepped closer and sat down on the couch to examine the bruise blooming on Greg’s cheek. He scrutinised his friend, searching for other signs of injury. “Concussion?” He asked, peering anxiously into Greg’s eyes. “Headache?” 

Greg shrugged. “They think concussion.” He said. “My helmet took the brunt of it…”

“I heard…” Mycroft stopped and smirked self-deprecatingly. “Rumour is that you weren’t thinking clearly afterwards.”

Greg smiled briefly. “Didn’t know you listened to gossip, Slim.” He teased. Then he sobered. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember the crash… just found myself on the ground. I knew where I was… but I had to think about how I’d got there — it was all a blank. Came back to me pretty fast. Weird, though…”

“They’re sure you’re OK? Head injuries can be —”

“I had a scan.” Greg assured him. “All clear. Doctor gave me a list of things to look out for.”

Mycroft nodded. He would be vigilant for any indication that Greg’s head injury might be worse than expected. His eyes wandered to the ice pack. “You hurt your knee?”

“It’s not bad. Should be fine in a day or so — it won’t keep me from racing next weekend. Mostly I’m just tired.” Greg held Mycroft’s eyes for another moment, searching for… Mycroft did not know what, but it made him feel naked, stripped of his defences.

“Maybe… erm… you should go to bed.” Mycroft offered. He was completely stupid and useless — why had he thought that he could help? Mycroft stood up awkwardly. “Just needed to know you were ok.” He mumbled.

Greg looked away, trying to hide his disappointment. “That’s why you’re here. Yeah.” He took off the silver hat and ran a hand through his dark hair. “I’m tired, My.” He said. “I don’t… my filter isn’t working. I can’t…” He shook his head and sighed. “Sorry. Ignore me.”

Mycroft hesitated — he had been elated to see Greg up and walking, the rush of emotion held in check only by the presence of Boy Hemans and Benny. Now they were alone and he had not the first clue what to do, what to say. He sat back down, next to Greg.

Turning back, Greg’s expression warred between hope and defeat.

“I meant to tell you… I’ve been… worried about you.” That wasn’t right — it wasn’t _enough_. Mycroft could not seem to put words together tonight. “I didn’t know if you… if you were badly injured…” He discovered that he had taken Greg’s hand and was holding it in both of his.

Greg stared at their hands. He didn’t pull away. “I’m fine, My. Really.”

Mycroft nodded. Holding Greg’s hand felt wonderful. Whatever he had thought he might say fluttered away. 

“Mycroft?” Greg’s voice was plaintive. He tugged at Mycroft’s hands gently. “What do you want, My?” He asked.

“I…”

“Because you know how I feel about you.”

Guilt rushed through Mycroft like wind, blowing words from his mouth. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. I was so afraid.” He whispered.

“Afraid?” Greg murmured. He lifted his other hand and it floated by Mycroft’s shoulder but did not touch. “My, you have to tell me what you want. I can’t… I can’t risk everything… again.”

Mycroft couldn’t breathe — he was still afraid. He was _terrified_. But of losing Greg or of… Mycroft did not know what. He barely knew up from down. “I can’t lose you.” He repeated. “I can’t.”

“You haven’t.” Greg told him simply. 

Mycroft opened his mouth… and closed it again. He was dumb tonight, unable to formulate words. Or thoughts. He was stumbling around in the dark.

“What do _you_ want?” Greg asked him. His hand landed on Mycroft’s arm. It was warm and strong and the contact anchored him. “Just… tell me.” He moistened his lips reflexively and Mycroft could not look away from Greg’s mouth. 

Shaking, Mycroft shifted nearer, clinging to Greg’s hand. Taking a breath, he leapt off the edge into the boundless unknown — he leaned in and pressed his lips to Greg’s. It was soft and hesitant and to Mycroft it was _everything_.

Greg pulled him closer, caressing Mycroft’s arm where he held him. Mycroft swayed dizzily and kissed him again, his insides thrilling as Greg returned the kiss. “Greg…”

When they separated, Greg sighed and relaxed, resting his unbruised cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder. He was heavy and warm, and it felt marvelous to hold him. 

Mycroft kissed the tender skin of his temple, inhaling the scent of his hair. 

“Please,” Greg said pressing his lips to Mycroft’s neck. “Please tell me this means that you want me.”

“I want you.” The words felt like barbed wire being pulled from his throat, and for a moment Mycroft thought he would be sick. He was betraying his promise to Mummy! Mycroft could not bear to think how this would hurt her.

But Greg’s hands gripped him more tightly and abruptly Mycroft felt light and free. “I want you!” He repeated, boldly tasting the truth. “My life would be unutterably _small_ without you.”

Greg shuddered and his arms enveloped Mycroft completely. He buried his face in the vee of Mycroft’s neck and shoulder and Mycroft felt dampness pooling on his skin. Tears? Guilt and its companion regret, flamed to life as he remembered how he had pushed Greg away, how he had hurt him — _how he had acted with Marcel only half a day ago_! He was not worthy of someone as good and honest and pure as Greg Lestrade! 

“I can hardly believe this.” Greg mumbled against his chest. He leaned up, almost shy, and stole another kiss… and another. He gripped the fabric of Mycroft’s jumper and their kisses deepened into an exploration of tongues and lips that sent shivery thrills up and down Mycroft’s spine. He had never felt so... _connected_ to another person. Nothing had ever felt so right.

Greg pulled back, a look of wonder on his face. “Is this really happening?”

“Yes.” Mycroft began to smile, his joy too great to be contained.

Grinning, Greg blinked sleepily and rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Oh, you’re exhausted… and I’m keeping you awake.”

“I’m fine.” Greg insisted, head popping up. “Don’t … don’t go.”

“I won’t.” Mycroft assured him with a tender kiss. “Let’s lie down.” Mycroft gathered the stockier man in his arms as they stretched out on the couch.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow… in the morning… you’ll be here?”

“I will.”

“I mean… I care about you too much. If you’re gone in the morning… if you say we can’t… do this… can’t be together…” Greg propped himself up on his elbows. “I understand, I do… but if you won’t be with me tomorrow, I need you to go. Now.” The last word was a whisper.

“I have been unforgivably cruel to you.” Mycroft murmured. He pulled Greg back down and kissed him over and over. “I cannot imagine ever letting you go again.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do.” Mycroft sighed. “I should not have pushed you away… I must earn your trust — I shall, you’ll see.”

“I trust you.” Greg protested.

“I will earn it.” Mycroft vowed. He kissed Greg — he never wanted to stop. He needed it like air, like oxygen. “I hope that you can forgive me.”

Blunt fingertips found Mycroft’s jaw, and traced the sharp line of it. “There’s nothing to forgive.” Greg said softly. 

“I cannot agree.” Mycroft mumbled. Greg was too good — Mycroft had been weak… cowardly. 

Greg kissed him and Mycroft’s insides swooped, electricity and butterflies and … and _joy_ displacing every other emotion.

“You have been in an unfair situation. An impossible situation.”

Mycroft could not get enough of Greg’s lips. “Not completely impossible, I hope.” He murmured between kisses.

“They’ll come around, My.” Greg told him, gently optimistic. His hand caressed the back of Mycroft’s neck. “You’re their son. They’ll come around.”

“Perhaps.” Mycroft allowed tightly. He pushed thoughts of his family away — he was not ready to pollute this delicate joy anticipating their reaction. 

Greg kissed him once more, smiling and snuggling down in Mycroft’s arms, closing his eyes. “I’ve dreamt of this... of kissing you. Holding you.” He nuzzled the skin where Mycroft’s neck met his shoulder and it felt divine — warm breath, soft lips. Greg’s hand wandered down Mycroft’s side, tracing his ribs, his hip, his thigh through his clothing.

“No accounting for taste.” Mycroft teased.

“You’re gorgeous.” Greg asserted, kissing his neck.

Mycroft frowned — but could not stop himself from arching into the luscious kisses and caresses. Greg pulled him closer. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?”

Mycroft stretched his neck, giving Greg more access. “If you are expecting gorgeous, I’m sorry to say you will be terribly disappointed.”

“What are you on about?” Greg halted his attentions and searched for Mycroft’s eyes, attempting to make contact. “You’re beautiful.”

“ _You’re_ beautiful.” Mycroft snorted. “I’m nothing of the sort. I’m homely, skinny and ginger. I’m freckled and bony and pale…”

“Stop it.”

“You don’t…” Mycroft protested.

“I know what you look like, Mycroft Holmes.” Greg insisted. “I don’t think that you do. I don’t think you have the first clue how lovely you are. Listen to me, My. On the bike your strength is amazing. And your skill… your form is flawless — every time you race, you give a master class in perfection. I love watching you race… sometimes I drop to the back of the group, just so I can see you ride. You’re lithe and flexible and exceptionally, wonderfully powerful.”

“But off the bike…”

“Off the bike, every move you make is elegant, graceful. Like a dancer, or a… I don’t know, like royalty.”

Mycroft scoffed, but Greg shushed him with a kiss. “Yes, like royalty. You’re always dressed so impeccably. Always so together in your fine clothes. So proper. I love it. It makes me want to muss you, ruin you, make you all dishevelled and wanton.” He tugged at Mycroft’s collar and kissed the skin underneath. “Your skin is so lovely — I need to taste every single freckle!”

“You’re insane.” Mycroft asserted.

Greg moved so Mycroft could not avoid seeing his face. “No. _You’re_ insane if you think I’m going to let you think you’re anything less than the most gorgeous, desirable man on earth.” He tightened of his grip on Mycroft. “I want you so much, My!”

“I want you too.” Mycroft whispered. Nothing in Mycroft’s life had been more true.

“Oh! What am I doing? I... I should ravish you right now...”

Mycroft chuckled. “I can see you wincing, my dear. Lie back down — get off that knee.” 

Greg harrumphed, but Mycroft gathered him close and rubbed a calming circle on his back. “There is no rush. Rest now. Does your head ache?”

“A little... I’m sorry I’m not...”

“No apologising. Just rest.” 

“I’m the luckiest man alive.” Greg murmured.

Mycroft suppressed his scoff — he didn’t want to rile Greg again. He hoped that Greg never realised his insanity, never woke from his deluded dream. “You make me happy, too.”

“I want to.” Greg’s voice was fading. “I want to make you happy. I’ll do anything…”

“Hush, my dear.”

“I’m going to ravage you tomorrow.”

“I will encourage that endeavour.”

Greg chuckled softly. “I like how you talk, Slim… all posh.”

“Nonsense.” 

“Kiss me again?” Greg asked, his voice soft and abstract. He was on the edge of sleep, his eyelids drooping. Mycroft smiled, his joy so great he thought he might burst into song or burst into tears or just burst. He leaned down and Greg’s lips were so sweet...

He stroked Greg’s dark hair. Slowly Greg’s breathing evened out and deepened.

Mycroft lay awake for a long time, Greg tucked against his chest, warm and heavy and alive. The bruise on his cheek made him look fragile and very young — Mycroft wanted to wrap him up and protect him from harm. All harm, any harm. Greg Lestrade should always be well and happy!

It was strange, Mycroft had never _cuddled_ before — or not since his spikey little brother had grown out of crawling into Mycroft’s bed, and that had been more sharp elbows and head butts than cuddles. Holding Greg was different — even in sleep, he clung to Mycroft, moulded his lean body against Mycroft’s side, tangled his legs with Mycroft’s... it felt... serious... _important_. He stroked Greg’s back tenderly, feeling awestruck.

Abruptly he was afraid, thoughts of his family refusing to be put off any longer. His breath stuttered — could he keep Mummy and Sherlock and Father from discovering this affair? Mycroft thought not… 

...but maybe, possibly, if he and Greg were _very_ careful and _very_ lucky, they might be able to conceal it for the few months until Mycroft was safely on a pro team, no longer living and travelling with his family… 

It would be challenging to obscure the sharp, sweet happiness he felt at even the thought that Greg was _his_ and he was _Greg’s_.

But they _must_ be careful — Uncle Rudy was nowhere near as observant as Mummy and Sherlock, but even he would notice if Mycroft began sleeping in the guesthouse — he could not sneak from his bed into Greg’s without alerting the household. When his family arrived on Thursday, he would be back under the microscope. 

He despaired. Mycroft’s only rational hope — and it was far flung — was that Mummy liked Greg enough that she would accept their relationship... in time...

He should not indulge in such fantasy!

Mycroft fretted that his brother would be completely lost to him. Sherlock was so much more sensitive to their parent’s moods and fancies than even-keeled Mycroft had ever been. Without Mycroft around, Sherlock began acting out — he had already had to talk Sherlock out of running off to London to track down Detective Gregson at the Met. If he fancied himself solving murders at fourteen, what would he be doing at sixteen? At eighteen? Mycroft shuddered to think.

_Could_ Mummy come around? Someday? Or was Greg too optimistic? Mycroft couldn’t bear to lose _any_ of them... 

Why did he have to choose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will Mummy do when she finds out? Is Greg right that she will come to accept their relationship? Or is Mycroft right to think that she won’t?
> 
> Can Mycroft stand to lose the person who has raised him, cherished him, defined him? Can he possibly hide something this huge from her? Will he even try?
> 
> Thank you all for your comments! I love hearing your thoughts on each chapter.


	10. GARIN GUEST HOUSE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after....

Mycroft woke slowly… 

Sunlight turned the insides of his eyelids gold and he heard voices… who was in his room?

Why did his bed feel strange?

Abruptly the developments of the night before flooded his consciousness and with it a bright, clean joy — quickly followed by a stabbing fear. Uncle Rudy was one of the voices in the room! Mycroft had spent the night with Greg last night! They had slept in each other’s arms. Had they been discovered already?!

No — he’d locked the door after Boy Hermans left last night. If Uncle Rudy were here, Greg would have had to let him in. He would have seen Mycroft asleep on the couch _alone_. His hammering heart began to slow.

How had he not woken when Rudy had knocked? When Greg left him to answer the door? How had he not leapt awake, adrenaline making his heart race, panicked and terrified?

Did he feel so safe in Greg’s arms? Foolish! Ruinous!

It was disastrous, how close they had come to being caught out — and at the very first opportunity! 

Mycroft stirred and discovered Greg’s green puffer jacket had been spread over his upper body, his own overcoat on his legs. His body was twisted awkwardly — Greg’s comfort had been paramount last night, his own an afterthought. He was surprised he’d been able to sleep.

“You awake, Mycroft?” Uncle Rudy called. Mycroft sat up and looked around blearily. Uncle Rudy was sitting at Greg’s table with a mug of tea, chuckling at him. 

But Mycroft could not see beyond Greg. He looked beautiful, bedhead akimbo, stripped down to his vest and the hospital’s trackies. The bruising had darkened around his left eye over the contusion on his cheekbone, but it served to highlight his handsome features with its contrast. He leaned casually against the kitchen counter with his own mug of tea —at some point, Greg had acquired more than one mug. “You didn’t come down for breakfast, I came looking for you.”

Greg made a face behind Uncle Rudy’s back, a face that said, “We’re ok, don’t panic.”

“I... must have fallen asleep.” Mycroft said, rubbing the sand from his eyes. Greg’s bed, up in the mezzanine loft, was unmade, upholding the fiction that they had slept apart. “How is your headache?” He asked Greg.

“Better, thanks.” Greg said. “Concussion.” He told Uncle Rudy. “I think Mycroft was worried about me.”

“With that shiner? Can’t blame him.” Uncle Rudy said over his tea. “He fusses over Sherlock the same way.”

“Someone has to.” Mycroft said more sharply than his Uncle deserved. He softened his tone. “I hadn’t intended to stay… I heard the van in the drive last night.” He explained. “Came down to unlock the basement for Mr. Hermans to stow Greg’s gear.” He yawned hugely. “What is the time? Surely not as late as the sun suggests.”

Greg chuckled. “Almost ten. Tea?”

Mycroft wanted to say yes, wanted to spend all day with Greg Lestrade. “I should eat... I felt a bit dodgy last night, but now I’m famished.” He stood up and stretched. 

“I’ll make breakfast — if you haven’t eaten, come keep Mycroft company” Uncle Rudy invited Greg. “It’ll do you good.”

Greg blinked, hiding his eagerness. “Seems only fair after Mycroft watched over me all night.” He drawled.

Mycroft scoffed. “Clearly I was your bulwark against disaster, dead to the world on the couch.”

“I’m glad you were here.” Greg contradicted. “Put my mind at ease.”

“Oh. Well.” Mycroft began to worry that the new developments in their relationship were stunningly obvious... but Uncle Rudy simply drained his tea and stood up. 

“Breakfast.” He said.

“Do you mind if I... first.” Mycroft indicated the loo.

“Have at it.” Greg said.

“I’ll put the porridge on.” Uncle Rudy said heading towards the door. “And eggs — we have some mushrooms I can throw in.

Mycroft’s stomach growled loudly, and Uncle Rudy guffawed. “Right. See you over there.” He said and left them.

Mycroft relieved himself and washed his hands. On impulse, he took a slug of Greg’s mouthwash — they had a minute alone...

Greg clearly had the same thought — as Mycroft emerged, Greg pinned him against the wall and kissed him. Mycroft responded, digging his fingers into the muscle at Greg’s waist. 

“Fuck... I’m wild about you.” Greg murmured. “You look so gorgeous when you wake up... all soft and muddled.”

“I have never been soft nor muddled.” Mycroft declared. But arguing the point was so much less interesting than Greg’s mouth on his neck. “How are you? Sore?”

“A little stiff.” Greg told him. “Probably feel it more tomorrow.” He traced the shape of Mycroft’s jaw with his lips. “Tell me we’ll find a way to be alone today.”

“Yes.” Mycroft panted. “I’m running after breakfast and motor pacing with Uncle Rudy for three hours. But afterwards…” He pulled Greg’s face up to his own. “What do you have on? You’re taking it easy today?”

“Yeah. Couple hours on the rollers,* no intensity. Benny’s coming by soon.”

Mycroft nodded and kissed him, marvelling that he could kiss and touch Greg Lestrade at will. His insides felt giddy.

Greg used his body to press Mycroft to the wall, grinding against him as he sucked on Mycroft’s tongue. Mycroft’s prick was becoming decidedly interested in the proceedings, arousal building low in his belly — and he could feel Greg becoming hard against his hip. He was desperate for Greg to touch him — the thought of his big hands... 

With difficulty he turned his face away. “Uncle Rudy will be waiting.” He said.

“Bollocks.” Greg rested against Mycroft for a few seconds, his frustration palpable. Then he pushed off with a wry smile. “Go on ahead.” He said. “I’m right behind you, just want to change.”

Mycroft returned the smile. “You make me happy.” He said.

Greg’s smile broadened and brightened, and he embraced Mycroft again, wrapping strong arms around Mycroft’s thin frame. “Oh god... I can’t believe it... I’m so lucky!”

“Don’t be absurd.” Mycroft murmured. 

“Hush!” Greg admonished. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

Throughout the day, as Mycroft ran in the park, as he hunched over his road racing bike four centimetres from Uncle Rudy’s bumper, the countryside flashing by around him, he found himself grinning with foolish joy. Greg! The memory of his kisses, his hands, of holding him until he fell asleep feeling safe and cared for...

He schooled his features carefully when they arrived home after his workout. Mycroft wanted to rush over to the barn, sweaty and dishevelled in his spandex kit, instead he clomped into Garin House in his cycling shoes and found his recovery shake in the fridge. He was digging in his pockets for the Ziploc with his phone when Uncle Rudy stopped him. 

“Your mother rang.” He said.

 _how does she KNOW_? Mycroft felt clammy and panicked. He and Greg had not been romantically involved for fifteen hours! _How did Mummy know_?! And what would she do? 

“Oh?” Mycroft asked.

“She wants me to go to Holmescroft for a few days to work with Sherlock — he’s been... well, you know how he gets.”

“What did he do?” Mycroft asked — all his paranoia dissolving into worry for his brother.

“Set fire to the shed.” Uncle Rudy told him. 

“Good Lord.”

“She wanted you — you know how to talk to him. But we can’t have you traipsing over to England right now with the Christmas and New Year’s races starting next weekend.”

“I’ll Skype with him.” Mycroft assured his uncle distractedly. “I’ll do it now.” He resumed his search for his Ziploc encased phone, his hand groping in the pockets on the small of his back.

“Anthea’s coming to drive me to the train.” Uncle Rudy continued. “I’m taking the 17:33 to Brussels.” From there, Mycroft knew, he would take a Eurostar bullet train through the Chunnel to the U.K. “You’ll be ok here alone?”

“Of course, Uncle. You needn’t worry about me.” His heart was leaping with joy — time alone with Greg! _DAYS_ alone with Greg!

“I have to pack…”

Uncle Rudy hurried off to his room and Mycroft repaired to his own, stripping off his outer layers — he needed a shower. But first he wanted to ring his brother.

“Hello, brother-mine.” Mycroft said to Sherlock’s chin.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock sighed. “What do you want?”

“I understand you set fire to the garden shed.”

“Merely a side-effect.”

“Of?”

“I was experimenting with Ammonium Nitrate.”

Mycroft clicked rapidly through his chemistry… “Fertiliser.”

“Yes.”

“You made it explode?”

“Yes.”

“For God’s sake…” Mycroft shook off the impulse to scold. “How did you ignite it?”

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible — but Mycroft could see the shift of his eyes and the jut of his chin. 

“A roman candle, Sherlock?! Where did you get such a thing?”

The boy tossed his head. “Victor Trevor has three boxes of them in his basement.”

The Trevors were Holmescroft’s closest neighbour. “What were you doing in the Trevor’s basement?!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Acquiring roman candles, Mycroft. Weren’t you listening?”

“I assume Mr. Trevor was not aware that you helped yourself to said fireworks.”

“You shouldn’t assume.”

“But?”

“But Mr. Trevor doesn’t know that we took some of his roman candles — Victor says his father hasn’t looked at them in years.”

“Right. How many are left?”

“Oh, he still has boxes of ‘em.”

“No, Sherlock. How many do _you_ have left?”

“Oh. Three.”

Mycroft considered… he could chastise his brother — demand he give the roman candles back. Or he could grass, tell Mummy and Father that their youngest had three explosive fireworks on hand. Neither would do anything but cause Sherlock to work himself into a strop and use the roman candles somewhere even more inappropriate than on a bag of fertiliser.

“Do you think you can pack them in your luggage without being discovered?”

Sherlock perked up. “Of course, I can!”

“Then bring them. We can set them off on New Year’s — after Mummy and Father have gone to bed.”

“Excellent! Will Lestrade be there?!”

Mycroft’s heart beat faster and he felt the tell-tale heat rush to his cheeks. He hoped his overly observant younger brother did not notice through the phone screen. “I have no idea. You’ll have to ask him his plans for New Year’s Eve. I assume he’s racing.”

“You shouldn’t assume.” Sherlock parroted. 

“No, I shouldn’t. You can ask him when you arrive here on Friday.”

Mycroft ended the call and turned on the shower.

|| The Iceman || 16:23  
_I’m back. How are you? How is your headache?_

|| Greg Lestrade || 16:24  
_Come over! I miss you!_  
_We have a few hours before dinner, yes?_  
_My head feels fine_

|| The Iceman || 16:24  
_Showering. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes._  
_I missed you too._

It was a marvel! Greg Lestrade! Had missed him! Mycroft still had difficulty believing it. This much happiness was suspect — surely it could not last. But, oh! It felt wonderful.

When Greg opened the door to the guest house, he had an odd look on his face — one of startled bemusement that rendered his bruised cheek almost comical. His eyes lit up when he saw Mycroft. “Get in here.” He said. As soon as the door was closed, Mycroft found himself pressed against it, Greg looking at him so fondly. “I missed you.” He murmured then kissed Mycroft.

Mycroft did not think he had ever been happier. His hands found the back of his lover’s neck, the short, coarse hair between his fingers… it was heaven! 

With a sigh, they separated. “You know your Uncle is leaving town?” Greg asked.

“Yes.” Mycroft wanted to kiss him again.

“He came over here a few minutes ago.” Greg told him, an irrepressible smile growing. “He asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“An eye on me? Whatever for?”

“Who cares, Slim? He’s leaving us alone together for five days!”

“Oh! Yes, I… I know.”

Greg chuckled at Mycroft’s fading indignation. “Will you stay the night? With me?”

Mycroft sucked in a breath — his breast was a swirl of emotions, anticipation, giddy happiness, lust, fear… terror… carefully, he pushed Greg back and stepped away from the door. “Yes.” He said before the other man’s face could fall. “But we must wait until he’s gone — he will check in again before he leaves.”

“And he’ll find nothing here but a couple blokes sitting around watching the telly.”

Mycroft nodded. “With the shutters open. You always have the shutters open this time of day.”

“You really think he’ll notice?” Greg asked.

“Yes. We must not do anything out of the ordinary. We must never appear to be _trying_ to be alone together.”

“OK.” Greg agreed slowly. “You know them best.” He opened the shutters and the room filled with the rose-gold light of late afternoon. 

Mycroft surveyed the room, searching for anything that might give them away. Greg’s main bike leaned against the wall opposite the loo, a set of rollers* nearby, facing the telly. There was an array of cycling water bottles on the dining table alongside a small barrel of electrolyte powder and a bowl of apples and bananas. A pile of laundry was heaped just outside the closet door, and an errant sock lay half under the sofa. Up on the mezzanine, the bed was made.

Toeing off his boots, Mycroft sat down on the couch. Then he turned himself upside down, so that he lay on the couch with his legs thrown over the back. He angled himself so his head and shoulders didn’t dangle off the edge. This was the position he often took, elevating his legs after a challenging training ride. 

Greg picked up the remote and turned on the telly. “Tea?” He asked. “Water?”

“Water.” Mycroft decided. He listened as Greg filled one of his bottles with water from the sink and brought it to him. He had a second for himself — his other hand settled on one of Mycroft’s feet and began massaging. His thumb digging into the heel.

“Oh God…” Mycroft moaned. “That’s amazing.”

Greg abandoned his water bottle and used both hands to knead the arch of Mycroft’s foot. Mycroft wanted to purr… hands worked up to his ankle and one stroked his calf.

“Those pyjamas you wore… God, in Kortrik.” Greg rumbled. “I wish you were wearing them now.”

Mycroft felt his face heat. “You remember my pyjamas?”

“God, yes! They clung to your arse... your thighs... I couldn’t stop thinking about you, you looked so sexy… you always look sexy —”

Mycroft scoffed.

“You do! I’d heard about a bloke in the U23 field… just blowing everyone else out of the water. Didn’t believe you could be _that_ good. Then I watched you at Worlds… and you were _better_ than they’d said! You were magnificent... I told you what you look like on a bike.”

“Err… scarecrow?”

Greg smacked Mycroft’s knee. “None of that.” He chastised. “You’re… elegant. Sophisticated… you floated through that course... so graceful! It was... captivating.”

Mycroft scoffed again, rolling his eyes. 

“I have to admit, I developed a little crush on you right then.”

“Liar.” Mycroft breathed, knowing that Greg was telling him the truth. It amazed him.

Greg chuckled, his hand inside the leg of Mycroft’s trousers, caressing his shin, his knee...

“Do you hear that?” Mycroft was suddenly alert, tense. “Is that a car?”

Greg stood up straight, reluctantly letting Mycroft’s leg go, and squinted out the window. “Yes. Shiny, black sedan.”

“Anthea.” Mycroft breathed. “Come for Uncle Rudy.”

Greg walked ‘round the couch and sat down a careful metre from Mycroft, leaning back next to his legs and looking down into his face. “This is going to be... hard.” He said. “Pretending I don’t want to touch you — pretending it never crossed my mind... that being near you doesn’t drive me wild... that I don’t see your... beauty...”

Mycroft snorted loudly.

“You still don’t believe me?”

“I believe that you believe it.” Mycroft told him. “Evidence that you’re delusional.”

“I’m going to show you —” He was cut off by a knock at the door and they both jumped. “It’s ok.” Greg breathed. “It’s open.” He said loudly, picking up the remote and muting the telly.

Uncle Rudy stepped in. “Mycroft, you have your training schedule for the week?”

“Of course.” 

“You’ll ring if you have any questions.”

“I’m sure I will be fine, Uncle. No need to worry about me.”

“Your mother worries. Call her, will you.”

“Of course.”

“Ok. I’m off. Greg.” Uncle Rudy nodded at the racer.

“Have a good trip.” Greg called as Uncle Rudy pulled the door closed. They waited in silence, listening to the doors of the car opening and closing, the engine starting and the car pulling away. 

Greg stood up and closed the shutters, then went and locked the door. Mycroft turned himself right-side up and stood as Greg turned towards him. For a moment they just looked at each other. 

Then they rushed into each other’s arms, kissing and holding each other tightly. Mycroft _needed_ to touch him, to feel him, to consume him and to be consumed. Greg’s arms encircled him, held him as hungry lips and tongues met over and over. 

Steps, small steps backwards across the room — a dance that Greg led. Mycroft was blind, uncaring of the destination, trusting Greg completely. Mycroft bit at Greg’s lips and was rewarded with a low moan that shot directly to Mycroft’s groin.

He buried his hands in Greg’s hair as he was slowly backed across the room. Greg nipped his earlobe and Mycroft shuddered with arousal. His heels bumped against something solid — the bottom step of the stairwell that led up to the mezzanine — Greg meant to take him to bed! _Yes_!

Greg picked him up in arms like iron and Mycroft _loved_ it. He wrapped his legs around Greg’s waist, his arms around Greg’s neck, unwilling to stop kissing him for one second. Then they rose, Greg carrying him up the stairs, one hand on the rail, the other on Mycroft’s back pinning him to Greg’s broad chest.

It was absurd and Mycroft laughed, joy bubbling out of him. Greg began to laugh with him as they tipped, and fell, Mycroft’s back hitting the mattress. Greg collapsed beside him, giggling, and Mycroft rolled on top of him. “God, you’re lovely.” He murmured, feeling Greg’s stubble rasp across his lips. He moved and felt Greg’s erection against his hip and Mycroft was so, so hard too. He tore at Greg’s T-shirt, undulating, trying for friction. 

Greg growled and sat up, facing Mycroft who straddled his lap. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it away, returning to Mycroft immediately. Greg wrapped his arms around him and tumbled them back down onto the bed.

Mycroft was entranced by Greg’s chest — he’d seen it before, in passing, but to be up close, to run his hands over taut pectorals and the ridges of his ribs was divine. He kissed Greg’s sternum, filling his nose with the scent of his skin — soap, massage oil, chamois cream… he bit into a shoulder, muscle unyielding between his teeth. Greg groaned and pulled him up into a kiss.

Finding Greg’s flies by touch, Mycroft tugged at the buttons. His hand found its way inside the jeans to cup Greg’s hardness through his boxer briefs. It was hot and thick and throbbing and Mycroft’s excitement boiled over. He shoved at Greg’s pants and trousers, needing to touch his bare skin.

Greg’s mouth was on his own, his tongue searching, exploring — claiming. His hands were under Mycroft’s shirt, blunt fingers raking over his nipples, his collarbones, his neck. He arched up and Greg’s hands found their way inside his trousers and cupped his bare arse. Mycroft moaned aloud, beyond embarrassment, beyond rational thought.

“Off.” Greg panted. “Take your clothes off!”

They scrambled apart and Mycroft ripped his jumper and shirt over his head at once — he spared a millisecond to feel self-conscious about his narrow, hairless chest, but Greg pulled his pants down and his cock sprang free. It was _glorious_ — bigger than Mycroft had expected and absolutely perfect. It was red and engorged, the foreskin pushed back the thick shaft by the swelling of the head. Mycroft could not wait. He wrapped his hand around its length and stroked. Greg sang his pleasure and collapsed on the bed next to him. 

“Off.” Greg repeated, fumbling with Mycroft’s trousers. Grudgingly, he let go Greg’s cock and unzipped his flies. He lifted his hips to push the offending garments down his thighs.

With an angry grunt, Mycroft sat up and yanked his trousers to his ankles and kicked them onto the floor, followed closely by his pants.

He turned back to Greg — and found him looking at Mycroft in awe. Mycroft stopped himself from covering his scrawny torso with his toothpick arms, allowing Greg to look his fill. He could not accept that Greg found him attractive, but the other man reached out tentatively, as if he couldn’t believe he had been granted access to something so gorgeous. He gently caressed Mycroft’s flank — it made his prick bob excitedly.

They crashed into each other once again, lips finding lips, hands gripping backs and hips thrusting, rubbing their cocks together. Mycroft could barely breathe and he did not care.

Greg half turned away, one arm flailing as he held Mycroft with the other. He kissed Mycroft, then let his head fall back. Mycroft mouthed his lovely, exposed neck. Then Greg was back with a half-full tube of lubricant. He pushed Mycroft onto his back and squeezed a good amount of the lube onto his hard prick, making Mycroft squirm at the chill. With a mumbled apology, Greg tossed the tube away and pulled Mycroft against him.

Mycroft gasped at how good it felt! Greg’s cock and his own rubbing together, rubbing against each other’s bellies, the lubricant making it warm and slippery. Greg’s hands found their way back to Mycroft’s arse and gripped hard and Greg rutted against him, panting. Mycroft held tightly to Greg’s back, thrusting his hips, a stuttering slide enhancing Greg’s rhythm. It was animal and desperate and exquisite. It was perfect. Mycroft wrapped his long legs around Greg’s thighs and they rode each other, breath heaving, perspiration beading, moaning and grunting, and kissing desperately. Mycroft’s hands slid over Greg’s damp back as Greg nipped his neck, low down near his collarbone. His nipples were so hard, whenever Greg’s chest heaved against his, they sent butterflies spiralling down his core — a counterpoint to the intense building pleasure…

Abruptly, Mycroft came, his body rigid in Greg’s grasp. “God… yes.” Greg panted. “Come… you’re gorgeous… God…” His big paw wrapped around Mycroft’s cock and milked every last trace of pleasure from it. He had never come so hard or so long! The pulsing ecstasy scrambled his brain and short-circuited his body — Mycroft swooned, helpless in Greg’s grip. He watched, glassy-eyed as Greg pumped his own prick three, four, five times and spurted onto Mycroft’s abdomen. Greg panted, shuddering as the waves of orgasm overcame him. He collapsed next to Mycroft. 

They lay together, spent. Greg caressed Mycroft’s arm gently, smiling, shining with happiness. “God, your skin! So soft...”

Mycroft smiled back tentatively. This part was new to him — lingering after sex. The one time he and Phillip had been together, Mycroft had cleaned up and left after a parting kiss or two. His assignations since had been anon quickies — come and go, so to speak. It felt odd not to pull away and sort his clothing. He wondered if he should…

As he pondered, Greg pulled a box of tissue from under the bed and wiped the come off his belly, carefully throwing the soiled tissue in a bin, by the bed. “Come here, My, get under the covers.” Greg murmured.

He crawled in beside Mycroft and pulled him close. “You’re tense.” Greg said. “Are you ok?”

“Oh, yes... simply unused to...” He chuckled nervously. “I haven’t been in bed with a companion since Sherlock was five and plagued by nightmares.”

“Oh... right.” Greg pet his neck and shoulders. “Try and relax — are you comfortable?”

“Erm...”

“Roll on your side — the other way.” Mycroft obliged wondering what would happen. Greg snugged up against his back, arm around Mycroft’s waist. “How’s this?”

“Nice.” Mycroft told him, weaving his fingers through Greg’s and holding them against his chest. “Very nice.” 

“Mmmmm...” Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s neck. He could feel the rasp of Greg’s chest hair on his back, the iron of his thighs tucked against his hamstrings, the warmth of his groin soft against his bum. It was... exceedingly pleasant. 

Mycroft felt safe and contented in his lover’s arms. He dozed, dreaming he could leap ten metres at a time, floating weightlessly, putting a foot down only to push off into giddy flight again.

\---

Mycroft awoke feeling pleasantly warm — he had been dreaming that he’d been lying on a beach under the hot sun, the sand moulding to his body perfectly underneath his towel... 

It was not the sun — the room was mostly dark. Mycroft was pressed up against the heat source — the lean, sturdy body of his lover. 

Greg lay nude, half under the duvet, half exposed to the air. His skin was tan — very tan on his arms and legs where his short-sleeved kit did not cover — and smooth, the muscle firm and defined even in repose. Dark hair grew under his navel and travelled his belly to join the riot of curls around his cock. His erect cock.

Greg stirred, his arm tightening around Mycroft’s back. “You awake, Slim?” He murmured.

“Mmm, yes.” Mycroft sighed. He was getting used to this cuddling thing. He found he rather loved it.

“Good.” Greg purred and rolled himself on top of Mycroft, his big hands tracing down his sides. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“And you’re insane.”

“Hush.” Greg paused and leaned back to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “If you’re not in the mood...”

Mycroft reached down and fondled Greg’s erection, eliciting a moan. “The mood for this?”

Greg smiled, his handsome face shining happily. He rolled his hips, thrusting into Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft touched his neck, pulling him close for a kiss. His lips were soft, his breath hot. Their tongues met, tangled. Abruptly, Mycroft _needed_ him, lust heating his blood to boiling. Moaning, he writhed under Greg, rubbing his prick against Greg’s hip. Their kisses grew fevered and Mycroft clutched Greg closer.

Breaking away, Greg chuckled. “Slower this time, yeah? We have days and days.”

“Slow...?” Mycroft had never even considered slow — all his liaisons had been fast and frantic. Desire and fear mixing during adrenaline-fueled hook-ups. Even his self-abuse was quick, efficiently stroking himself off in the shower.

Greg must have read Mycroft’s thoughts on his face. “Let me show you.” He said, kissing Mycroft’s neck, his collarbone, his sternum. “I want to taste you, Slim.” Greg nipped Mycroft’s jaw. “I want to taste you all over... every part of you.” He descended on a pale, nipple, tonguing it lavishly. “God, I love your freckles.” He murmured, kissing the spray of sun kisses on Mycroft’s pale, narrow chest. “I need to taste every freckle... every centimetre of your lovely skin...

Greg moved lower, kissing the ropy muscle on Mycroft’s clean-shaven calves, nibbling his knees, tracing the scars he found there with his tongue, running his hands down iron-hard quads and over jutting hip bones. He lavished attention on the tender skin on the insides of Mycroft’s thighs. It tickled and Mycroft squirmed, earning a delighted grin from his lover.

When finally, Greg nosed the musky auburn fur around Mycroft’s hard prick, Mycroft could not stop his moan. He spread his legs to give the other man room to lie down. Greg licked a wet stripe up the shaft making Mycroft tremble. Then he lifted it and sucked the head into his mouth. Mycroft cried out — it felt so good!

He hadn’t known quite what to expect — Greg had been with a woman for years. Would he be interested in cock? Could he revel in Mycroft’s masculinity? Or would he prefer simply to frot and touch him with his hand?

Did he expect to fuck Mycroft, something Mycroft had never done, top nor bottom. 

But he was pleased and not a little astonished to discover that Greg embraced Mycroft’s maleness, celebrated it. He did not seem to care about the lack of curves and softness, the absence of breasts and hips. Greg sucked cock enthusiastically with evident pleasure. Greg Lestrade! World Champion! Sucked cock!

Greg held Mycroft’s hips down and pushed himself up. He slowly pressed forward taking Mycroft’s prick into his throat and descending until he could press his nose to Mycroft’s belly. Mycroft gasped, overcome — no one had done this for him before. It was _incredible_! So hot and tight! His hips wanted to thrust, but Greg held him still as he pulled back then deep throated him again. Mycroft cried out!

Somehow his hands had found their way into Greg’s hair, gripping fistfuls of the dark, silky locks. He let go, suddenly self-conscious, but Greg bobbed on his prick, his tongue curving under and digging under his foreskin. Mycroft threw his head back, overcome by the sight, the sensations…

Greg pulled off with a grin, leaving a trail of saliva from Mycroft’s cockhead to his mouth. It was insanely, impossibly sexy. Mycroft sat up and kissed that mouth, cupping Greg’s face with both hands. Greg kissed back, wrapping his palm around Mycroft’s prick and tugging slowly.

He gently disengaged. “Lie down, love.” Greg said. He took the head of Mycroft’s penis in his mouth, tonguing the slit. Mycroft leaned back on his elbows and watched, trembling as Greg fellated him. Greg met his gaze wickedly and Mycroft gasped.

Jacking his cock, Greg nuzzled Mycroft’s balls, sucking them into his mouth and licking where they joined his shaft. Fingers tapped softly upon his hole. “May I touch you here?” Greg asked.

“Y-yes.” Mycroft stuttered.

“Has anyone done this for you before?” Greg kissed the soft skin of Mycroft’s inner thigh. “Have you?”

“No.” Mycroft told him, eyes round with anticipation and desire. “No one.”

Greg smiled tenderly. “We’ll go slowly.” He moved and grabbed the tube of lubricant, his eyes sparkling. 

He returned to his ministrations on Mycroft’s prick, licking and sucking, stroking it with his big hand. With one slick finger, Greg circled Mycroft’s tender, pink sphincter, toying and caressing until Mycroft was mad for more. 

“Oh please...” Mycroft begged. “Oh Greg, put it in.” He undulated against Greg’s hand.

Greg smiled happily. “Bear down.” He murmured, and carefully breached, slipping his finger inside to the first knuckle.

“Oh!” It felt so good! The stretch! The heat! “Oh God!”

“Ok?” Greg asked.

“Yes! Fuck!”

Greg chuckled and began to finger fuck him shallowly. He pulled Mycroft’s prick into his hot, hot mouth and bobbed. 

Mycroft writhed lost in sensation. He may have been crying out, he hardly knew, he only knew he wanted more! The thick finger went deeper, and Mycroft began to fuck himself on it with staccato thrusts — how had he never done this before? How could it feel so good? Greg matched his rhythm, allowing Mycroft to set the pace and the depth. Soon he had Greg’s entire forefinger inside him, in and out, in and out, whilst Greg licked the head of his cock, jacking along with his thrusting finger.

Then Greg curled his finger and an electric jolt of pleasure exploded through his body!

Mycroft had never felt anything like it! Suspended between stimuli so intense — Greg’s sucking mouth, his questing finger. Mycroft’s bollocks were tight and bursting, his stomach taut, his muscles tense. The eruption was coming! “Greg! I’m... I’m going to...” He attempted to warn his lover — but then he came inside Greg’s mouth and the shame and excitement were piquant. He shouted and pushed deeper into Greg’s mouth — vaguely aware that Greg continued to fuck his hole as he shot pulse after pulse onto Greg’s tongue. 

As he shuddered and fell limp to the bed, the last few surges of pleasure being wrung from his body, he realised he again had both hands fisted in Greg’s hair and had shoved his cock back down Greg’s throat. He felt the man swallow, throat tightening around his glans almost painfully.

Mycroft let go. “Sorry! Sorry...” He was mortified that he had lost control and abused Greg’s kindness...

“Don’t be.” Greg said with a grin. “That was great!” He heaved himself up the bed to lie next to Mycroft. “That was perfect.” He stroked his own cock, thrusting into his fist, aiming for Mycroft’s belly. Mycroft reached out and fondled his bollocks, admiring their weight. He kissed Greg’s neck, biting gently at the soft skin. “Fuck! Yes.” Greg grunted and climaxed, striping Mycroft’s torso with pearly cum.

After, Greg lay next to Mycroft and gathered him in his arms. When they kissed, Mycroft tasted the bitter flavour of his own ejaculate. He pulled Greg closer, kissed him more deeply, loving the sensation. 

_I love you_. The words shocked Mycroft! He swallowed them down, chastising himself — Greg would not welcome them! It was too soon. They were too much.

“Come here, gorgeous.” Greg rumbled, holding Mycroft close. 

——

When Mycroft woke again, it was to sun rays so gloriously, gorgeously golden he could hardly bear it. They streamed through the upper window, lighting up the old barn, dust dancing in its beams. Mycroft felt warm and safe and wonderfully content.

It was a completely alien feeling.

Mycroft had never been one to linger in bed. He generally rose early — he never hit the snooze button on his alarm, never drifted lazily in and out of a doze for ten minutes… and then ten more minutes. Did that make him a ‘morning person?’ He got up when he woke up and began his day.

But today, Mycroft did not want to move. His lover was snugged against his back, radiating heat, a possessive arm wrapped around him. He didn’t think he’d ever felt happier. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to simply have this.

Until his bladder forced him to stir.

Sighing, he extricated himself gently, not wishing to disturb Greg. He was beautiful in repose, his hair tangled, mouth slightly open surrounded by the dark bristles of his nascent beard. He’d kicked off the duvet in the night, exposing his back to the cool air. Greg truly was almost painfully lean, his bulky muscle sharply defined and delineated. His tan skin was bruised and scarred, a mostly healed abrasion on his hip bright pink. His abused cheek was stained purple, his knee bruised and scabbed, but overall, he exuded health and strength.

Wrapping himself in Greg’s dressing gown, Mycroft made his way silently down the stairs and to the loo.

After his ablutions, Mycroft opened up the cabinet in the wall, revealing the tiny kitchen. He filled the kettle and turned it on.

Greg thumped down the stairs before the water heated. He’d put on yesterday’s boxers, but was otherwise nude. Yawning, he smiled at Mycroft and wrapped his arms around the slimmer man, enveloping him.

“Good morning.” He murmured into Mycroft’s neck. “I missed you upstairs.”

Mycroft could not help the smile that bloomed on his face. “I’m making tea.” He said, leaning into Greg’s heat. “And it’s time for breakfast.” He’d slept through his usual breakfast time and the hunger was beginning to gnaw.

Greg nipped Mycroft’s jaw. “There’s muesli and yoghurt... or I could make pancakes, I have maple syrup from Canada... what?”

Mycroft realised he’d pulled away. “As delightful as that sounds — and it _does_ sound wonderful, Greg — I’m afraid neither muesli nor pancakes are on my nutrition plan. Apologies.”

“You don’t need to apologise, Slim.” Greg let his hands drop to Mycroft’s hips. “You tell me what’s on the menu.”

“I’m afraid my diet is rather unappetising.”

“Your diet is fine. We’ve had breakfast together loads of times.”

“If you’d prefer pancakes...” Mycroft busied himself with mugs and teabags. “You should have them. My diet should not proscribe yours.”

“Slim...” Greg laughed softly. “Stop.” He pressed his body against Mycroft’s back and rested his chin on his shoulder. “I don’t care what we eat. I just want to do it with you.” 

Mycroft held up one of the mugs, the one with sugar, and Greg took it with the hand that had been wrapped around Mycroft’s middle.

“Unless I’m being too clingy.” Greg said, lifting his head to sip his tea. “You can tell me to sod off and I will. No worries.”

Mycroft turned in his arms and studied Greg’s face. “You really _do_ want to spend the morning together.”

“Yeah.” Greg affirmed. “Was that unclear?”

“I… don’t want to assume.”

Greg grinned. “I want to spend the day with you, Mycroft Holmes. I want to spend every day with you.” He brushed his lips against Mycroft’s.

“I too… whilst we can…” He pressed Greg back to lean against the table, and set down his tea. Mycroft smiled a sly, knowing smile.

“What?” Greg asked.

Mycroft dropped to his knees and nuzzled the front of Greg’s boxers, feeling the heat of his groin, feeling his cock begin to harden, smelling the perfume of Greg’s arousal.

“Oh!” Greg squeaked, setting his mug down hastily. His hands settled gently on Mycroft’s shoulders.

Smiling up at him, Mycroft pulled the elastic waistband of Greg’s boxers out and down, freeing his cock. He pressed his face into the join between thigh and torso, kissing the sweet skin, his nose parting the dark curls. He caressed Greg’s burgeoning prick and wrapped his other hand around Greg’s powerful flank, enjoying the flex under his palm. With a last glance upwards, Mycroft pulled the velvety foreskin back and licked the ruddy glans. Greg moaned appreciatively his fingers restless on Mycroft’s shoulders.

Greg cursed when Mycroft took him into his mouth, curling his tongue around the shaft. He cradled Greg’s bollocks, rubbing his perineum with two long fingers. Greg moved to give him better access. 

This was only the second blow job Mycroft had given — the first to the gardener’s boy so long ago. He went slowly at first, paying close attention to Greg’s reactions, cataloguing what made him moan, what made his fingers clutch his shoulders, and what ultimately, made Greg’s hands move into Mycroft’s hair.

He discovered that with his hand wrapped around the base of the shaft, he didn’t gag — and Greg showed as much enjoyment as when he tried to take him deeper. More, Greg pulled away when Mycroft choked, caressing his face with a worried frown.

He discovered that Greg liked to see his precome spread on Mycroft’s lips, liked when he bobbed with suction, liked when he jacked his prick, slick with saliva. Greg spread his legs when Mycroft fingered his hole and groaned aloud when Mycroft wet his own finger and pressed in. He was pulling the thick shaft with one hand, nuzzling his bollocks and stroking lightly over his prostate with the tip of his finger when Greg came, shouting. 

Mycroft held him upright as he wobbled, weak-kneed, and they laughed together through Greg’s aftershocks. 

Later, Greg sat languidly in the solarium in Garin House whilst Mycroft scrambled eggs and stirred his rice porridge. He was so hungry his stomach was gurgling loudly. Greg laughed at him.

“You’re regretting your detour.”

“Not in the least.” Mycroft said firmly, putting bread in to toast for Greg. He added mushrooms and asparagus to the frying pan and opened a can of beans. 

Greg helped him dish up the food and they carried them into the sunlight together. As they ate, Greg smiled at him shyly and touched his thigh under the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Finally the boys earn their explicit rating.  
> They get a little honeymoon, a few days of freedom and togetherness before reality comes crashing in. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your comments. They help me see the fic in new ways.
> 
> *******
> 
> * Bicycle rollers are a type of bicycle trainer that make it possible to ride a bicycle indoors without moving forward. However, unlike other types of bicycle trainers, rollers do not attach to the bicycle frame, and the rider must balance him or herself on the rollers while training. Bicycle rollers normally consist of three cylinders, drums, or "rollers" (two for the rear wheel and one for the front), on top of which the bicycle rides. A belt connects the middle roller to the front roller, causing the front wheel of the bicycle to spin when the bicycle is pedalled. 
> 
> Roller tricks - Racers spend a LOT of time on their bikes, yo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-2fB8qGpqrs


	11. SINT NIKLAAS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg’s honeymoon comes to a close.

The five days together were _perfect_. Mycroft slept in Greg’s bed every night. They cooked and ate together in Garin House’s big kitchen. They trained together, egging each other on until, exhausted they pedalled home slowly. The only time they spent apart was Wednesday when Boy Hermans took Greg for his follow up with the doctor and in the late afternoons when Anthea and Benny came to massage their legs and tend to their nutrition and kit. When their soigneurs left them alone again, they made love.

The only source of tension was Mummy’s nightly Skype call. Mycroft had to be in Garin House — Mummy would definitely notice if he were elsewhere — dressed, unmussed and acting as if nothing had changed when his world had tilted on its axis and _nothing_ could ever be the same again. 

Thursday evening found them in the solarium overlooking the village. It was a glass box jutting out from the kitchen of the old house, very modern and clean. They’d had dinner at the little breakfast table then had moved to the lounge closer to the glass. The lights were off so what few passers-by there were could not see into the solarium. 

The lay head to foot, each claiming an arm as a headrest. Greg had his hand on Mycroft’s thigh, caressing the tender inner flesh through his trousers absently. 

“What are you thinking about, My?” Greg asked him, his hand rubbing up and down.

It was soothing. Mycroft was tense, and he knew Greg could feel it in his body — he’d discovered that it was impossible for him to hide his moods from his sensitive lover. “I am thinking,” He said softly. “That my family will be arriving tomorrow and this… this _holiday_ we’ve had together will end.”

Greg nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. “Not end. It will be more difficult, but it won’t end.”

“Difficult? It will be impossible. We will not be able to sleep together — I would wake the entire house attempting to leave my room upstairs and cross the courtyard at night! If we eat together, we will not be able to touch — I daren’t even look at you for fear Mummy will see the sentiment in my expression. Sherlock will be with us and he notices _everything_ — if I visit you in the barn… when we’re training…”

“Sherlock won’t be with us all the time — he’s fourteen!”

“He’ll be there for skills, for plyometrics, weights, intervals. Unless we ride out for more than three hours, he will be there.”

“Then we will ride for four hours — five hours.”

“Twice a week then. Twice a week we can perhaps steal a few minutes…”

“It will be easier on the road — I’ve already made certain we’re in the same hotels for the rest of the season.”

“It _might_ be possible to have an hour or two in a hotel. But I cannot promise. Sherlock... Sherlock is difficult to evade. And impossible to fool.”

“We have to find him his own friends to keep him occupied.”

“Greg… how can we go back?” 

Greg sat up and took Mycroft’s hands. “We don’t have to go back. We can tell them…”

“We _cannot_!” Mycroft took a breath, attempting to calm himself. “ _I_ cannot. And you will tire of the onerous subterfuge. A few months… a few weeks…”

“Mycroft.” Greg said sternly. “Stop. We will find ways to make it work until you are travelling with a team and we have the privacy we need to be together.” He pulled Mycroft’s hand to his lips and kissed the calloused palm. “Don’t give up on us before we’ve even had a chance.”

“Yes… you are right, of course.”

Greg’s face crinkled in a smile. “I like how that sounds.” He teased. “You don’t say it enough.”

Mycroft sat up and took Greg’s face in his hands. “My God you are beautiful.” He kissed the other man slowly, thoroughly.

A phone alert sounded.

Mycroft flopped backwards with a frustrated huff. “That’s Mummy.” He said. “How do I look?”

“I’ve messed up your hair — let me just… there, you look perfect. Where do you want me?” Greg asked, swinging his legs off the lounge. “Am I here?”

“Not tonight, I think.” Mycroft said. He positioned his phone so that Greg was not in the frame and answered the call. “Mummy, hello.”

“You look tired, Mycroft. Are you getting enough sleep?”

“I have. And I’m going to bed directly after we speak.”

“Mm. Good. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“The usual, Mummy. Training most of the day. An hour and a half with Anthea.”

“Sticking with your food plan?”

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft said. “I would not abandon it without discussion.”

“You’re a good boy, Mycroft.”

“A good boy?” Mycroft mused. “I’m no longer a boy.”

“You’re _my_ boy.” Mummy insisted. “You’ll always be my boy.” Mycroft squirmed, uncomfortably aware that he was misleading her — with every word and every expression, he was lying by omission. He hated how that felt, how dirty and sleazy it was to betray her thus. “Good news, I’ve heard back from Sphere — it appears we can work out an accommodation for cyclocross. I’m working with their attorneys on the contract, we should have it ready before January one.”

“I look forward to reading it.”

“They want it signed before the new year.”

“Mummy... I haven’t spoken to anyone at Sphere.”

“And?”

Mycroft suppressed a frustrated huff. “I will need to meet with the directeur sportif — or the coaches at least — to discuss their plans for me, how they see me fitting into the team.” 

“I’ve spoken with Sir Chris, Mycroft. You don’t need to worry.” Sir Chris Stewart was the directeur sportif of Sphere. He had been knighted by the Queen after Britain’s gold medal sweep in cycling at the last Olympics. He was the braintrust behind cycling’s resurgence in Mycroft’s home country.

“I’m not _worried_ , Mummy. Meeting with the team management is not an outrageous request. I would hope they would want to speak with me as well.”

“There will be ample time for that in January, after the World Championships.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “That’s fine, Mummy, but I’m not signing _anything_ until after a meeting.”

“This is not the time to be difficult, Mycroft.”

“That is never my intention.” Mycroft said calmly. “But you must admit that meeting with the people who will be determining my future for at least the next year is wise.”

“You don’t trust me to represent your interests any longer?”

“This has _nothing_ to do with you, Mummy. I trust that you have secured a contract that is supremely beneficial. This is about me fitting into the team efficiently and effectively.”

Mummy sighed, making a show of feeling put-upon. “Fine.” Her voice was clipped. “I will arrange something with Sir Chris.”

“Thank you, Mummy.” Mycroft said dutifully. “How is Sherlock.”

Mummy smiled primly at the change in subject. “Much better now that your Uncle is here with him. I’m sorry to deprive you of your coach.”

“I am perfectly able to keep to my schedule for five days.” Mycroft said forcing a smile onto his face. “But I look forward to your arrival tomorrow.”

“Sherlock is anxious to see you too. You and your friend, Lestrade.”

Mycroft struggled momentarily to keep his expression serene. “Shall I tell Lestrade to gird his loins?”

Mummy chuckled. “I’m glad you’ve pursued this acquaintance, Mycroft. He’s a good sort.”

I was almost impossible to keep from glancing at Greg, but Mycroft had iron discipline — Mummy had ensured that. He allowed a very small smile. “I find the connection… useful.”

“That’s my boy.” Mummy crowed. “Ever practical.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft agreed. “I admit, I am tired, Mummy.”

“Get to bed then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Goodbye.” He cut the connection and closed his eyes. Lying to Mummy was draining.

Greg moved around behind him and began massaging Mycroft’s shoulders. 

“You don’t understand why I insist upon keeping her in my life.”

“What’s to understand?” Greg asked softly. “She’s your mother.”

Mycroft leaned back into the warmth of Greg’s arms. “I do not deserve you.”

Greg kissed his head. “C’mon, Slim, let’s go to bed.”

“I shall miss this.” Mycroft murmured. “More than I can express.”

“Not tonight you won’t.”

“No. Not tonight.”

Greg took his hand and pulled Mycroft to his feet. “Come on.” He waited while Mycroft turned out the kitchen light and locked the back door of Garin House, then they walked together to the old barn. Inside, Mycroft closed the shutters, latching them carefully. Greg locked the door.

They met in the centre of the room. Greg took Mycroft in his arms, his face shining with happiness. They kissed — slowly, _as if we have all the time in the world,_ Mycroft thought, _not one night._ Mycroft slipped his hand under Greg’s shirt, enjoying the heat of his skin and the hardness of his muscle.

Greg pulled the shirt over his head and Mycroft ran both his hands over his broad chest. Greg was so lean — they both were, it was part of their sport — but it was easy to forget how thin Greg was when he wore clothes. Not only did he not have an ounce of fat anywhere, Greg carried no more muscle than he absolutely needed. His shoulders and arms were cut, but Mycroft knew Greg struggled to avoid building up the muscle there. His body was eager to bulk, as his magnificently thick thighs and buttocks attested. 

His body was so different from Mycroft’s own. His own arms were pathetic, stringy things, the elbow joint larger than his biceps. His chest was defined by bone, his pectorals a thin, hard film between ribs and skin. His pelvic bone jutted out on either side of his concave stomach. Even Mycroft’s thighs, as strong as they were, were thin, the muscle compact and rangy.

It was still strange to think that Greg found him attractive.

But as Greg unbuttoned Mycroft’s shirt, his big, warm hands touched Mycroft’s body greedily, lustfully. He could feel Greg growing hard against his hip, felt his own erection answering.

Mycroft tore at Greg’s flies, sudden urgency making him clumsy. They opened and he dropped to his knees, shoving the jeans down the tree-trunk thighs and mouthing the cotton of Greg’s boxer briefs. A wet spot appeared on the fabric and they both groaned. 

He had almost missed out on this! He had turned Greg away! The very thought made Mycroft anxious

Pulling Greg’s briefs down his hips, freeing his heavy cock and taking it in hand, Mycroft licked the glans where it peeped from its cowl. It pushed its head out farther, seeking stimulation. Mycroft sucked it into his mouth and stroked the shaft. Greg’s hands found his hair. He bobbed, making love to the sensitive member. He cupped Greg’s heavy bollocks and rubbed a finger along his perineum, evoking a broken moan.

“Come here.” Greg said, pulling Mycroft to his feet. “Your knees must be killing you.”

“Not yet.” Mycroft assured him. He smiled into the kiss, knowing how Greg loved to taste himself on Mycroft’s tongue.

“Upstairs.” Greg urged, kicking off his jeans.

Mycroft did not need prodding, he took Greg’s hand and they ran up the stairs together, collapsing on the double bed, laughing. Greg rolled him on his back, pinning Mycroft down with his weight and moved against him. “Jesus, take your trousers off.” He demanded.

Mycroft toed off his shoes as he unfastened his flies. Greg rolled to his feet and pulled them from the cuffs, removing them in one smooth movement, and casting them aside. He knelt on the bed and watched as Mycroft shimmied his pants down his hips, then Greg tugged those free as well.

Greg sighed happily as they lay skin-to-skin on the bed. He kissed Mycroft, nipping his lip and teasing him. Mycroft stretched luxuriantly, adoring the feel of his lover on top of him. 

“I want you.” Greg murmured, mouthing Mycroft’s neck — careful to leave no marks. “I want you inside me.”

“Hmmm?” Greg was sucking on his nipple, something that made it difficult to form thoughts, let alone words. 

“I want you inside me, My. I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh!” Mycroft was so rarely surprised, but now it curled through his arousal, little spikes making him hotter, harder. “You... you want that?”

“With you, yes.” Greg cupped Mycroft’s face and kissed him. Then he pulled back and looked at Mycroft seriously. “If you want to.”

“I… y-yes, I do… but I’ve never…” Mycroft stuttered. “I don’t want to hurt you....” _I don’t want to do it incorrectly. I don’t want my incompetence to cause you the least bit of discomfort… or worse…_

Greg’s smile was brilliant and tender and so full of love. “How about if I’m on top? Just like we are now.” He reached back and fondled Mycroft’s prick. “You can lay back and enjoy it, let me do the work.”

“You’re sure you won’t… you’ve done this before?”

“Not with a person.” Greg told him. “But yeah, I’ve experimented? You haven’t?”

“No.” The very thought of _experimenting_ with Mummy in the house — she would _know_! Good Lord, _Sherlock_ would deduce it too! “No!” 

Greg appeared taken aback by Mycroft’s vehemence.

“That is to say… with my situation… not because I’m opposed… I’m amenable. Very amenable.” Mycroft shook his head. “Apologies, I rather fear I have killed the mood.”

Greg kissed him gently. “You haven’t.” He undulated his hips — Mycroft’s eyelids fluttered at the sudden stimulation and he caught his breath. “You couldn’t.” He pulled Mycroft close, kissing him thoroughly.

Mycroft found his hands gripping Greg’s hips as he ground upwards seeking more of the delicious friction. “What do I… how do we prepare…?”

“With your fingers.” Greg said. He reached over to the table and retrieved the lube. “And lots of lube.”

They’d done that — used their fingers, their hands on each other. Mycroft nodded. “On your back then. To start.” He tried to project confidence that he wasn’t feeling.

Greg gamely lay back next to Mycroft, petting his neck and shoulders. Mycroft kissed him, allowing passion to build. He loved that, feeling the surge of lust, feeling that he _had to have this man_! Feeling Greg’s desire for him… it was so much more vivid, so much more real, than the pale passion he’d felt for other men.

He took his time, kissing Greg’s chest, sucking and nipping his nipples, nuzzling his belly feeling the rasp of thick, dark body hair against his cheek. When his tongue traced along Greg’s hip, Mycroft indicated that he should spread his legs and crawled between them, nosing his ruddy cock.

Applying lube to his fingers, Mycroft allowed it to warm as he kissed the thick shaft and licked underneath the glans. Then he carefully pressed his slick finger against Greg’s hole.

Mycroft took his time, lavishing Greg’s prick with his tongue as he finger-fucked him slowly, adding fingers as Greg relaxed. Greg moaned and encouraged him as Mycroft opened his lover with his hand, lavishing attention on his cock and balls. 

When he was comfortable with three of Mycroft’s long fingers, Greg sat up and pulled Mycroft close for a kiss. Before Mycroft knew it, he was on his back and Greg was on top of him. They kissed and kissed., tasting, exploring… Mycroft was overwhelmed by the intimacy. He clung to Greg’s back, holding him close.

“Fuck me.” Greg breathed, 

Mycroft’s brain went offline briefly. His hands slipped around Greg’s muscular buttocks, gripping them, fingers teasing towards the tender hole at the centre. “You’re ready?” He panted.

“Yes. Just relax, love.” Greg lifted himself and straddled Mycroft’s hips. Mycroft leaned back on his elbows, memorising how Greg looked in this new position. “I’ll take care of you.”

Greg reached over to the drawer and rummaged in it until her found a condom. He picked up the lubricant.

“We should get tested.” Mycroft said abruptly. “Then we can skip the condoms.”

“God, yes.” Greg groaned. “You’re brilliant, Slim.” He kissed Mycroft again, excited and lustful. When he pulled away, his grin was broad and happy, his eyes anticipatory. He pressed Mycroft back gently. “Lay back, love.” He tore open the condom with his teeth and rolled it onto Mycroft’s prick — giggling. “It’s a little different doing it to someone else.” He tittered.

Mycroft had worn a condom only once before and he’d found it plenty awkward putting it on himself.

Greg spread a generous amount of lubricant on Mycroft’s cock then lifted himself up onto his knees. Mycroft admired the flex of his magnificent thighs, caressing them with his hands. Greg positioned Mycroft’s cock carefully, then sank down. 

Mycroft’s brain ignited — the sensation, the molten heat, the pressure… he’d never felt _anything_ like this! His fingers dug into Greg’s thighs as he paused, wanting more! So much more! It was difficult to keep from pushing upwards with his hips, spearing his cock into his beautiful lover.

“Give me a second.” Greg breathed, letting out a long breath. 

Ashamed, Mycroft pulled his hands from Greg’s skin as if it burned. “Apologies…”

“It’s not you.” Greg said, his smile reassuring. “Just need a second to adjust.”

Mycroft gripped the sheets instead, forcing himself to hold still, to not thrust his hips seeking more of the hot, tight friction that threatened to unhook his brain from his soon-to-climax body. “Would this help?” He asked timidly, stroking his hand lightly down Greg’s flagging cock.

“Yeah. Brilliant. That’s… brilliant.”

Emboldened, Mycroft closed his hand and jacked him. Greg threw his head back and whined — in pleasure or pain, Mycroft did not know.

Slowly, Greg slid down until finally he sat lightly on Mycroft’s pelvis. With a deep breath, Greg began to roll his hips, small back and forth motions that made Mycroft see stars. He’d had no idea that anything could feel like this! “Are… are you OK?” He forced himself to ask.

“Yeah.” Greg’s features had relaxed, and his hips were beginning to roll further. “God, yes.” He took Mycroft’s hands from his prick and interlaced their fingers, pinning them to the bed on either side of Mycroft’s head as he moved. The wet tip of his cock rubbed against Mycroft’s belly. Greg smiled down at his lover, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure.

 _Fuck_! He was _inside_ Greg! They were joined together. They were one!

Mycroft could barely think, the sensations were so acute. He was attempting to focus on not coming too soon — his climax sat heavily in his belly, in his bollocks, pulled tightly against his cock — but it was difficult with such a gorgeous man making love to him. 

And Greg _was _making love to him. It was obvious in the care he took, the gentle caresses and sweet sighs. His eyes gleamed with adoration and his fond smile trembled with emotion.__

___I love you_. The thought shocked Mycroft — it was ridiculous! It was _dangerous_! Making love was one thing, but... declaring love! He could not imagine allowing himself to be so vulnerable! And he had almost blurted it thoughtlessly aloud! Mycroft shoved the impulse away, choking slightly and then gasping as Greg clenched around his member. “Fuck!”_ _

__Unaware of Mycroft’s turmoil, Greg’s smile broadened and he leaned close to kiss Mycroft, hips continuing to circle and rock in ways that redefined ecstasy. His breath was hot on Mycroft’s cheek, his tongue sensuous and just the right amount of demanding. “You’re gorgeous.” Greg said. “God, more than you know.”_ _

__Mycroft thoughts fled, replaced by friction and desire. Only tender feelings remained, curling beneath the electric pleasure vibrating through his body._ _

__Greg sat up and released Mycroft’s hands, his movements gaining urgency. Mycroft, caught up in pure sensation, grasped his waist, hard muscle twitching under his fingers, and tried to aid Greg’s efforts. His hips shoved upwards and Greg gasped aloud. “Yes! Fuck, yes… like that!”_ _

__Mycroft braced his heels on the mattress a pumped upwards, thrusting into the beautiful man — _his_ beautiful man. He stared into eyes black with lust as they moved as one, chasing pleasure together. Greg’s thighs were slick with perspiration, the skin under Mycroft’s hands dewy. He let go and took hold of Greg’s bobbing cock, letting it stroke through his fist as they moved. Greg shouted, his movements becoming staccato — they slapped their bodies together fast and hard and _fuck_ Mycroft was losing control. He _had_ to see to Greg’s gratification before his own! But OH! It had better be soon! His fist flew, jacking Greg’s thick cock, twisting his wrist and sweeping his thumb over the weeping head and Greg’s cries went silent… mouth wide, head thrown back, he splattered his emission all over Mycroft’s chest._ _

__Mycroft let himself go and instantly he was engulfed in crashing waves of bliss. They seemed endless! He was tossed like flotsam, his body torn apart and shuddered back together over and over. He might have lost consciousness briefly._ _

__When he came back to himself, Greg was collapsed on his chest, his chin over Mycroft’s shoulder, his breath warm in Mycroft’s hair. He lifted his arms — they were heavy, yet weightless, as if he were moving underwater — and wrapped them around Greg’s back. He was slick with sweat_ _

__Slowly, Greg pushed himself up and Mycroft’s spent prick slipped free. The air on his damp chest was cold._ _

__Greg flopped down beside him and Mycroft, unable to let him go for a second, gathered him into his arms. “That was amazing.” Greg mumbled._ _

__“Yes.” Mycroft agreed. It felt as if the sentiment he has for this man had grown too large to be contained in his heart, and spilled out over their skin and into the room, into the world at large. It was everywhere. Mycroft thought they might float upon it. He clenched his jaw, biting back the indiscreet exclamations piling up in his throat._ _

__“I didn’t expect…” Greg muttered, kissing Mycroft’s neck, licking some of the salt he found there. “I didn’t know it would be like that.”_ _

___I love you_. His heart was overflowing! Once again the words almost leapt from Mycroft’s lips. He swallowed them — it would not be fair to make declarations on their last night together. He could not bear it. Mycroft struggled to form... realistic expectations. But after this... after _being inside_ Greg..._ _

__“I didn’t either… you’re…” Mycroft could not hold it in. “ _Mine_.”_ _

__Greg giggled, his smile luminous. “Because you planted your seed?”_ _

__Blushing, Mycroft laughed with him and some of the heaviness lifted from his chest. It felt _wonderful_ to laugh with Greg. To _be_ with Greg. “No… maybe… I don’t know… I just feel…” _Don’t say it_! “Close to you.”_ _

__Greg pushed a strand of auburn hair off Mycroft’s forehead, the gesture so tender… “No more doubts, Slim?”_ _

__“I have never doubted you.” It was the truth._ _

__“Regrets then.”_ _

__“No.” Mycroft assured him. “Fear, surely. But doubt, regret… never.”_ _

__Greg kissed him, his warm affection apparent in every flutter and sigh. “When do you think we can be together for good?”_ _

__An excellent question. Mycroft turned towards him, caressing his solid jaw. He wished he knew the answer. “Perhaps...” He ventured. “After ‘cross season is finished, whether I’ve signed with a team or not... perhaps I’ll tell Mummy that I’m moving out, getting a place of my own. Perhaps… we could be… flatmates?”_ _

__“Flatmates.” The word was rough in Greg’s mouth._ _

__“Partners.” Mycroft amended. “If that’s… acceptable. But to Mummy and Father, flatmates.” He shuddered remembering Mummy’s awful disappointment when Sherlock had outed him to her. Mummy’s disgust and disapproval... “Perhaps… if we present a convincing fiction, they will not pry. They will not want to know.”_ _

__Greg sighed. “I’m sorry that I’m pressing you — I know I shouldn’t. It’s just… it will be hard to let you go tomorrow. I want to keep you here in my arms forever.”_ _

__Mycroft smiled and kissed his lover. “I want that too, my dear. More than I can express.”_ _

__

__—-_ _

__

__It was a crisp, cold day — dry, as it had been all week. Mycroft, called up to the front row first, had chosen the spot right in the centre. Greg was behind him in the second row and just knowing he was there was comforting... exciting. They had stolen away for twenty minutes before lunch to be alone together. They’d snogged in the shadows between two tents, fearful that someone would come upon them but unable to stop touching..._ _

__Waaslandcross in Sint-Niklaas was the first race in the two plus weeks of almost daily races over Christmas and New Year’s. Sint-Niklaas was only forty-five minutes from Garin House in Schoten, thus the Holmeses had waited until Saturday morning to drive to the venue._ _

__The afternoon and evening before had been sheer hell for Mycroft._ _

__He’d woken in Greg’s arms and they’d made love again before breakfast. They’d laughed over eggs and porridge, holding hands under the table, then gone on an easy three-hour recovery ride._ _

__When they returned, Mummy, Father, Sherlock and Uncle Rudy were all there, along with Anderson who was prepping the bus. Greg disappeared into the barn as soon as they’d stowed their bikes. Mycroft showered alone in the austere en suite attached to his bedroom — his bedroom that he had not slept in since Greg returned from hospital late Saturday night._ _

__The noise! Everyone talking and making demands. Mummy quizzing him about books she had wanted him to read, Uncle Rudy with his laptop flagging up Mycroft’s power files from the past week, wanting to discuss his training, Father with the schedule of races for the next two and a half weeks, wanting to talk about which Mycroft was prioritising, go over again which he would race and which he would sit out, and Sherlock looking him over with eyes sharp as knives, listing out everything that had changed in the house, about Mycroft, since the last time he had been there, and speculating on what it might mean._ _

__(God forbid he discover the truth!)_ _

__It was invasive... repugnant. It reminded Mycroft why he’d always loved riding his bicycle — the solitude_ _

__Luckily, Mycroft was of less interest to Sherlock than pounding on the barn door and peppering Greg with questions. He could hear his young brother’s incongruous baritone through the window as he attempted to nap. He missed Greg intensely…_ _

__The whistle blew signifying the start of the race and Mycroft sprinted. He was the third rider to turn onto the gravel — behind Wurst and Vermeersch in their Dutch orange kit. He was third up the short, steep climb — Mycroft had been able to ride it when reconnoitring the course, but two thirds the way up, Vermeersch jumped off his bike and began pushing it up the hill, so Mycroft — and everyone behind him — was obliged to do the same. It was an opportunity for Wurst to ride away, but he got stuck at the crest and had to unclip from his pedal and use his foot to push himself over the hump._ _

__Hopping back on his bike fluidly, Mycroft followed them down a sharp descent that turned at the bottom into a swooping, off-camber ascent. Wurst was off his bike at the bottom and running, but Mycroft took a wide line, all the way to the banner at the far edge of the course, and then turned uphill — the angle was less steep and with the momentum he was able to ride halfway up before having to dismount. The move catapulted him in front of Vermeersch._ _

__There were two more downhills that turned directly into off-camber ascents across the side of the hill. Technically they _could_ be ridden, but it took a lot more effort than running — and it could be slower. So, all the riders dismounted at the bottom and ran up, jumped on their bikes to coast downhill then jumped off again to run up the next._ _

__The last descent took them into a flat, fast section through the woods, with sweeping corners that did not require the racers slow down. It took them to the lake where the course led across several cement boat launches — a sort of driveway that sunk down and led into the water. Riding across involved a very short cobblestone downhill, a cement section about two bike lengths long, then a short, steep, cobblestone uphill back onto grass. There were three of the boat launches, then the course turned back into the woods where dead leaves lay thick on either side of the dirt trail curving through the trees._ _

__The course took them back to the lake and a long straight section by the drop off into the water. A gentle ascent turned away from the lake into a sweeping S curve, past the bike pit and to a sharp 180. Mycroft had a chance to see the racers behind him. Separations had already started opening up — beside Wurst and himself, the front group contained Greg, Vanthourenhout and Drucker, and Vermeersch was a bike length behind trying not to let the elastic snap._ _

__The hurdles were placed after the 180, halfway along the straightaway. Mycroft bunny hopped them easily, as did everyone else in his group. They sped around another corner that took them along another section of the lakeside_ _

__The course was wider here and Greg took advantage to ride around Vanthourenhout, Mycroft and Wurst. Mycroft sprinted onto his wheel and they flew around a ninety-degree corner to another longish straight that led them over a cement lip about a foot tall and eighteen inches wide. Mycroft hopped his bike onto the lip effortlessly and rode off the six-inch drop onto the cobblestone road on the other side — it was slightly jarring, but no reason to slow down._ _

__This time, when the course doubled back to the lake, it took them to the beach where water lapped softly on wet sand. They skimmed the water until the course turned up the beach and they rode through the sand. It wasn’t deep, but dry sand was uncertain — one could flounder until coming to the narrow, hard-packed path made in the earlier races._ _

__Around another 180 in the sand — Greg and Mycroft rode it, but Wurst was slowed enough he thought it better to dismount and run, thus Vanthourenhout and Drucker were forced to do the same. Mycroft and Greg gained a small lead as they rode up a ramp into the start/finish. The group reformed on the pavement, Drucker taking over the lead, Vanthourenhout getting between Mycroft and Greg and Vermeersch catching onto the back._ _

__The group flew onto the gravel with a spray of stones. Mycroft, fourth in line now, stayed close to Vanthourenhout, looking for an opportunity to pass him. He and Greg had discussed this race, planned where to attack and get away from the other racers. On such a fast course, they would have to wait a few laps, wear the other racers down._ _

__Mycroft again had to dismount and run up the first hill. He tried the trick on the off camber again, riding down the hill, not turning to the ascent until the last second and riding up. This time, no one was in his path and he was able to ride to the top and plunge down the second descent in front of everyone._ _

__He led the rest of the lap. Greg used the wider section by the lake to pass Vanthourenhout and get on Mycroft’s wheel. Mycroft liked that — it felt... intimate, like their training rides. Greg Lestrade belonged next to him. They hopped the planks side-by-side._ _

__As they began the third lap, Vanthourenhout attacked in the start/finish, skidding into the gravel. He had to run up the first climb, allowing Mycroft and Greg to reach the top directly on his heels but he took Mycroft’s line down the descent and rode all the way up the tricky off-camber. He gained a bike length and maintained it through the woods._ _

__Greg tapped his hip and Mycroft understood that he wanted a turn at chasing Vanthourenhout. Mycroft let him by and followed his acceleration. They slammed through the corners, skimming the chest-high banners advertising beer and cellular services that lined the course. They caught him up just before the 180 that led to the planks. They all hopped their bikes over the hurdles and sat on Vanthourenhout._ _

__The attack and chase had dislodged Wurst and Drucker. Barring a slow-down, the race had been whittled down to the three of them._ _

__Greg attacked on the beach as they raced along the water’s edge. Mycroft sat behind Vanthourenhout as the Dutchman chased the Belgian. Greg managed to ride the deep sand 180 onto the ramp that led to the start/finish, but Vanthourenhout floundered and had to dismount and run. In the start/finish Vanthourenhout looked to Mycroft to take up the chase, pulling to the left to allow Mycroft to pull through. Instead Mycroft stuck to his wheel, going left with Vanthourenhout._ _

__Thijs shot him an embittered glance, and took up the chase again. Mycroft had to be careful with this strategy — Vanthourenhout could choose to wait for Wurst to help with the chase and that would not be good for Mycroft’s chances. He was not willing to race for second! Not in this series where every second counted!_ _

__Mycroft followed Vanthourenhout through the gravel to the steep run-up. They flowed together down the descent to the abrupt turn into the ascending off-camber and both dismounted and ran. At the top they rode down the next off camber and ran up to the top of the hill where they remounted and flew down into the forest._ _

__Greg was tantalisingly close — they’d rip through a corner and see him ahead before he disappeared around the next. Mycroft saw him looking to see where they were._ _

__God! He loved racing! Mycroft felt so alive!_ _

__The only thing that compared was being with Greg — but this was different than how he felt under Greg’s hands, under his mouth, in his bed — there he felt a part of something beautiful. He felt cherished and adored and... safe — even whilst he was terrified, certain of his doom..._ _

__On his bike, Mycroft felt _free_. It was exhilarating! He was strong and clever and indomitable. Mycroft could fly!_ _

__…until the race was over and Mycroft returned to his life, to his gilded cage. He hadn’t recognised that it _was_ a cage until his homosexuality had come out so dramatically. Since, the walls had been closing in on him. _ _

__But on his bike, Mycroft was the king._ _

__On the next lap, Mycroft took over the lead. He downshifted in the gravel to an easier gear and attacked the steep ascent full on. He managed it, riding over the crest whilst Vanthourenhout was still pushing his bike up the hill. He plunged down the hill, taking the tricky, wide line that allowed him the shallowest entry onto the uphill off camber. The effort up the first hill had been massive, this effort made his lungs scream, but he made it! He coasted down the next descent and ran up the un-rideable off camber and the next, flew down the final descent and into the trees. He had separation from Vanthourenhout — he had to keep it, widen it._ _

__Railing the corners, Mycroft traversed the forest. On the first section of lakefront, he jumped his bike down onto the cement boat-way instead of riding down the cobbled descent, getting a bit of air. Up the other side and sprinting to the next boat-way, and the next. He sped through the woods and flew past the bike pit. Riding toward the 180, he saw Greg approaching the planks. After, as he rode pell mell to the hurdles himself, he clocked Vanthourenhout twelve seconds behind._ _

__By the time he reached the start/finish again, Mycroft had caught Greg. He went directly to the front to pull, not missing the smile of feral joy Greg shot him._ _

__There were three more laps. Three laps in which to increase the gap back to Vanthourenhout and to work out how to beat Greg Lestrade, World Champion, _(boyfriend)_ , to the finish line._ _

__(He didn’t _have_ to beat Greg — this was the DVV series, it was raced on time an having missed the first several races in the series, Greg was way behind. Mycroft could come in second and increase his lead in the series over Vanthourenhout. But he _wanted_ to win.)_ _

__Mycroft rode the steep ascent again, but he stalled and had to dab a foot at the top to push himself over. He chose to run the ascending off-camber this lap, instead of finding the rideable line — riding it took a lot of energy that Mycroft wanted to conserve for the last lap. He and Greg ran up the next two off-cambers together and then zipped downhill into the forest._ _

__Forest, lake, forest, pit, 180, planks, lake, forest, cement lip, beach, 180 in deep sand, ramp, start/finish. They flowed through the course together. On the penultimate lap, Mycroft let Greg take the lead and sat on his wheel, matching every acceleration. Lord! The man was beautiful on a bike! Agile and graceful, he floated — made the speed they were riding the technical course appear effortless._ _

__Greg’s bunny hops over the hurdles were amazing! His wheels never touched the planks! The power! The highly-conditioned fast-twitch muscle! Mycroft could ride over almost anything, but his wheels touched the obstacle. He literally rode over it with an assist from hopping the bike. Greg, literally _hopped_ his entire bicycle over the planks. It was gorgeous to see._ _

__Mycroft felt a jolt of arousal — adrenaline was already rushing through his veins, now blood pooled hot and heavy in his nipples and his cock. Not enough to cause him problems, but enough to turn his cheeks ruddy with want. Greg was his lover..._ _

__The sex! The companionship. Being cherished… and cherishing. Mycroft hadn’t known it could be so rich! So perfectly satisfying. They had been the best five days of his life!_ _

__If only Mummy and Father weren’t so opposed…_ _

__No! Mycroft couldn’t think about that now. He didn’t know when he and Greg would be able to be together again — it might be possible to steal an hour here or a couple hours there in the line-up of hotels and travel over the next two and a half weeks — but here, in this race right now, there were _only_ the two of them. They flew together._ _

__Mycroft had to work out how to win._ _

__If he couldn’t distance Greg on the course — and barring some mistake on Greg’s part, that was looking unlikely — Mycroft had to get to the last corner, that 180 in the deep and shifting sand, first. Whoever was first up the ramp had an advantage._ _

__On the wider track by the lake, Greg attacked. Mycroft sprinted to catch him and when Greg saw he had not gotten separation, he sat up, Mycroft parried with an attack of his own, whooshing past Greg into the woods at pace._ _

__Mycroft peeked under his arm and found Greg on his wheel. They looked at each other as they rode past the pit. Mycroft couldn’t shilly around too much, saving energy, daring Greg to waste his, if he wanted to put more time between himself and Vanthourenhout in the overall. The problem was that Greg knew it. He could play silly buggers and count on beating Mycroft and Vanthourenhout in a sprint to the line._ _

__He took to the front, setting a hard but not exhausting pace._ _

__On the beach, Greg attacked again. Mycroft followed him through the deeper sand, churning around the sharp corner. Greg lost momentum and had to dab a foot._ _

__They got the bell as they crossed the start/finish line together. They raced in earnest to the gravel, Mycroft taking the lead by virtue of having the inside line. He downshifted and powered up the steep climb, riding it perfectly. He plunged down the hill all the way to the banners, then used the momentum to help propel himself up the challenging off-camber ascent. Down the next and then jumping off to run up the second off-camber hill. On his bike to coast down, off his bike to run up._ _

__If he’d gotten any separation, Greg had closed it down before the first corner in the forest — the first chance Mycroft had to glance back._ _

__Channelling BMX, Mycroft leapt his bike off the short downhill into the cement boat-way. The uphill, equally as short, was torturous — it slowed him slightly and he stood up on his pedals to build up speed again… only to be slowed by the next boat-way and the next._ _

__Through the forest again and Greg tried to pass Mycroft on the wide path by the second section of lake. Mycroft fought him for the lead — the best way to have it when they took that last turn on the beach was not to lose it between here and there._ _

__They swung onto the straight and passed the bike pit, all the mechanics and helpers rapt, shouting and cheering for them. Mycroft barely heard it — he was so focussed on making it to this first 180 before Greg. They hopped the planks, Mycroft half a wheel ahead and arced around and barrelled towards the cement lip. Mycroft bunny hopped it, landing on the cobbles neatly. They sped to the water’s edge._ _

__Greg attacked again, splashing through the shallow waves on Mycroft’s right. Mycroft sprinted, pedalling madly, and reached the turning first, again, by virtue of having the inside line. They rode the deeper sand, Mycroft’s bike shifting left and right underneath him. He moved his weight, countering the pull of the sand — after so many years, it was instinctive. The 180 with its deep, deep sand loomed._ _

__There was no passing here unless Mycroft completely screwed up and Greg ran around him. But he didn’t — Mycroft downshift once, to a slightly easier gear, and rode the deep sand into the curve, spinning his legs as fast as he could. His momentum held and he emerged onto the ramp without having to unclip! He shifted back into a harder gear and stood up and sprinted to the top of the ramp._ _

__Mycroft was first onto the finishing straight. He moved his hands down into the drops and shifted into a harder gear as he sprinted towards the finish line. He felt the disturbance in the air, saw Greg pulling beside him. The crowd was a roaring, screaming mass of which Mycroft was barely aware — there was only himself and Greg and their bikes._ _

__They crossed the line as the confetti canon popped. Had he won? Mycroft had no idea. Father grabbed his bike and Mycroft fell off onto the ground, the oxygen deficit acute. Lactic acid burned his legs and his lower back, and he was nauseated. Cold sweat and a surfeit of saliva dripped onto the pavement._ _

__Slowly, slooooowly he caught his breath. Mycroft sat up, hanging his head between his knees, hands shielding his distress from the masses — from the cameras pointing at him. He saw Father’s shoes, and Sherlock’s, and trainers that had to belong to his assigned chaperone._ _

__Someone sat down next to him and leaned in. “Hey there, Slim.” Greg Lestrade said. “Good race.”_ _

__Mycroft turned his head to peek at the other man. Greg’s cheeks were bright red and perspiration shone on his skin, but his breathing was almost back to normal. Bloody fast-twitch!_ _

__“Who won?” He panted. “I didn’t see.”_ _

__Greg chuckled and prodded Mycroft’s shoulder with his own. “They’re looking at the photo.” Greg said. “It was too close to call.” He stood up and offered his hand. “Come on, quit being dramatic and let’s go to the tent.”_ _

__Mycroft took his lover’s hand — he could feel his warmth through the half-finger gloves they both wore — and admired the way Greg’s bicep popped as he pulled Mycroft to his feet. His entire body yearned for the man, to feel his arms around him again._ _

__But as soon as he was up, Greg dropped his hand and turned away. Father handed Mycroft a towel and his recovery shake and led him into the warming tent behind the World Champion._ _

___He’s doing what I asked._ Mycroft reminded himself. _He’s doing what I insisted he do_. It was ridiculous to feel snubbed. So why did he?_ _

__As much as he wanted to, he did not allow his eyes to follow Greg as he retreated with Benny and Boy Hermans to the far side of the tent._ _

__But his heart ached and his hand felt cold._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will be hard now, for them to be together — harder for the freedom they had to begin with. Mycroft is so guarded... will he shut Greg out? Or will they be discovered?
> 
> Thank you for your comments!


	12. AZENCROSS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day...

| Greg Lestrade | 19:36  
_One day. One day without seeing you and I can hardly stand it, I miss you so much!_

| The Iceman | 19:36  
_I too have found it more difficult than I anticipated._

| Greg Lestrade | 19:37  
_Is it too much to say that I never want to spend another day without you?_

| The Iceman | 19:38  
_Perhaps. But it has made me smile nonetheless._

| Greg Lestrade | 19:38  
_I love your smile._  
_Jesus, I want to see you! I’m at my sister’s playing with my nieces and eating — there’s so much food! — but all I want is you. I’d rather eat Anthea’s rice bars with you than my sister’s excellent yule log cake._

| The Iceman | 19:40  
_More proof of your insanity._  
_I miss you._

Christmas Eve was interminable. 

They’d raced Namur after Sint-Niklaas, another fast, dry race that came down to a sprint. Greg had won outright in Namur and had looked resplendent in his rainbow World Champion’s jersey on the top step of the podium. 

They’d managed forty minutes alone in Greg’s hotel room afterwards — not nearly long enough, but as long as Mycroft dared with Mummy expecting him for dinner and Sherlock sharing his room. 

They’d made love frantically, kissing hard and tearing at each other’s clothes. Afterwards, they’d lain in Greg’s bed holding each other.

“I’ve missed touching you so much.” Greg told him. He pressed his nose against Mycroft’s hair and inhaled. “God, I can’t get enough of you.”

“I have missed you too... it has been more difficult than I imagined, sleeping alone again.”

“Can I see you tomorrow? I’m going to my sister’s... maybe we can ride together...”

“I wish we could, my dear. But I’m riding with Sherlock. He is extremely... observant. We cannot risk it.” Mycroft told him, snuggling closer under the duvet, feeling Greg’s hard body pressed against his own. “I wish we could... but you will have your nieces and your sisters to distract you.”

Back in Schoten for the holiday, Garin House felt jam-packed, overrun with noise and people making demands and expecting Mycroft to account for his movements. He had never before appreciated exactly how intrusive it was.

Mycroft had ridden for an easy two hours with Sherlock, then they’d taken the motorcycles to the motocross course two towns over and raced with their Uncle. All three of them had dallied in the sport for years — nothing was better for learning the precise geometry, balance and technique for riding through corners at high speed than racing a motorcycle. It was a necessary skill for any kind of bike racing.

“Be careful, darling.” Mummy told Mycroft, kissing his cheek. “You don’t want an injury that will keep you from racing.”

She meant that he should not risk a _stupid, unnecessary, avoidable_ injury from crashing his motorcycle.

“Don’t worry, Mummy. This course is hardly challenging.”

“Accidents do happen.”

“Come with us.” Mycroft invited. “You’ll enjoy it — help us isolate the most efficient angle through each corner. It’s all maths.”

“I have too much to do, Mycroft — this goose won’t roast itself.”

Mycroft smiled, surprised. “I love goose!” He said. Mummy hadn’t cooked the fatty bird for years, citing Mycroft’s diet for the drier turkey or tougher brisket.

“I thought you deserved a little treat, darling. I know your nutritional plan can be monotonous at times. But you’ve been doing so well this season. I’m proud of you.”

Mycroft felt his cheeks pinking, the pleasure at having earned Mummy’s praise manifesting as a warm joy suffusing his system. “Thank you, Mummy.”

Uncle Rudy honked the horn from the courtyard. “Ah, it’s time.” She said. “Enjoy yourself. No crashing!”

“Yes, Mummy.”

No-one had crashed. They returned hours later to roast goose, potato croquettes, spicy speculoos biscuits and Christmas pudding — a feast of the senses for Mycroft, the flavours and odours and textures so different from what he was used to eating. It was heaven to have a meal without rice, to eat a biscuit and a bit of cake without fretting about gluten. 

After the meal, the Holmses exchanged gifts. Mycroft had carefully chosen items for each of his family members — a crank-based power metre for Sherlock, the latest technology, and a new watch fob for Father. For Uncle Rudy, Mycroft had unearthed one of Roman Garin’s signed yellow jerseys from the attic and had it framed — his Uncle’s view of his father was less bitter than Mummy’s, and he teared up when he opened it. 

Mycroft gave Mummy a beautiful 1936 edition of Diophantus’ Arithmetica with marbleised end papers and gold embossing. She traced the fine embossed cover with her fingers, and he could see how the gift pleased her.

Mycroft had received his gift several weeks earlier — the latest iPhone to replace the one that had been damaged when he had crashed on the Kwaremont. He was also given several merino wool base layers and pairs of socks, a documentary about Eddie Merckx, and from Sherlock a bucket “to dump all your medals in.”

He retired early, citing the rich food as an excuse, and quietly texted with his boyfriend until after midnight.

On Christmas Day, Mycroft rode out alone — Sherlock was riding gravel roads with Uncle Rudy and Mycroft had begged off saying he thought he’d do some hill repeats in preparation for the upcoming races. He pedalled his road bike out to the Muur-Kappelmuur, a set of two vaunted climbs, both steep and cobbled that, like the Kwaremont, featured in the Ronde Van Vlaanderen and other one-day races in Belgium. 

Mycroft worked hard, doing several long intervals — not too intense, he would be racing on Boxing Day, but a solid three hours. Then whilst still riding, removed the computer from its mount on his handlebars, unscrewed the battery casing with his thumbnail and removed the battery. When Uncle Rudy looked at his power file, it would appear that the battery had died mid-ride.

He steered his bike into Antwerp, to an unfamiliar neighbourhood, to an address he’d memorised the night before. He rode the walk between the buildings to the back garden, dismounted and knocked on the door.

He listened to footfalls thumping down stairs. “Mycroft! Come up.”

“Bonjour, Jean-Pierre.” Mycroft returned, following Greg’s slim cousin up the stairwell to the second floor. Mycroft looked around anxiously as he carried his bike into Jempey’s kitchen. 

“Don’t worry, I’m on my way out.” Jempey told him. “He’s through the passage. Leave your bike anywhere.”

Mycroft set his bike against the wall, took off his helmet and set it on the saddle. Jempey took his hand. “I’ve never seen him so happy.” Jempey confided with a smile. 

Mycroft blinked. _Never_? Hyperbole surely.

“I don’t think he even knew how unhappy he was… he always puts on a good face, of course. But now that face is real.” Jempey kissed both of Mycroft’s cheeks and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

Was it true? 

“I’m off.” Jempey called out. 

Excitement jittering inside, Mycroft walked through to Jempey’s lounge. Greg stood in the centre. He looked amazing to Mycroft, lean and strong his dark hair flopping over his forehead above his lovely brown eyes. 

Mycroft’s face felt strange — he was smiling so widely, so hard. He went to Greg and brushed his hair back over his temple. “Happy Christmas.” He said.

Greg’s arms wrapped around him, pulled him close and they kissed. “I watched you ride up.” Greg said. “It was all I could do not to hang out the window and shout.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Mycroft murmured.

“That’s what Jempey said. He wouldn’t let me come down to meet you.”

“Your cousin is wise. Would we have made it all the way up the stairs?”

Greg laughed — a beautiful sound! “We’ll make it all the way to the bedroom.” He said, walking Mycroft backwards across the lounge. “Unless you want to treat Jempey’s flat like the barn.”

They’d made love everywhere in Roman Garin’s old barn — in the shower, out of the shower, on the couch, on the farm table and on the chairs. On the floor by the bed, on the coffee table and pressed up against the front door. Mycroft had even sucked Greg to orgasm in the big walk-in closet, splayed out on a pile of clean laundry. Mycroft had not known sex could be so much fun! He had not thought he’d ever want so much of it. But he could not get enough of Greg Lestrade!

“Get these fucking clothes off.” Greg growled, unzipping Mycroft’s jersey. He was wearing several layers of skin-hugging spandex to protect against the Belgian winter. Greg himself was wearing warm up trousers, a soft jumper and nothing else.

They both began tugging at Mycroft’s kit, giggling as he shed two layers at a time, shrugging off jerseys and pushing bib shorts and tights down his legs as one. They had to stop and unfasten the ratchet locks on his cycling shoes —Mycroft lay on the bed naked from waist to knee as Greg guffawed over his shoes. 

Finally, it was off —jacket, jersey, shoes, tights, shorts, socks, and a new merino wool under shirt and Greg pushed Mycroft down and kissed him.

“I’m sorry I’m so sweaty.” Mycroft murmured.

“You’re fine.” Greg assured him. “You’re gorgeous.” He nibbled along Mycroft’s jaw to suck on his earlobe. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” Mycroft agreed happily. 

Greg ran his hands down Mycroft’s bare sides and he shuddered, the joy and sensation almost too much. “How long do we have? Before you have to get back?”

“An hour.” Mycroft said, wanting it to be more — wanting it to be forever. “Or so.”

He saw Greg’s disappointment, hastily hidden away. Mycroft appreciated his forbearance — there was ample time for disappointment when they were apart, it was a waste of the short time they had together.

Mycroft pulled Greg down into a kiss — he could kiss Greg forever! He was learning what Greg liked best: long, lingering kisses, teasing tongue that grew more and more intense, searching, exploring, invading until Greg’s untouched prick dripped arousal. He moaned and raked his nails lightly across Greg’s back, relishing the way his lover arched into the touch. Mycroft cupped one of his perfect buttocks and pulled Greg’s hips close, lining up their cocks to rub against each other.

Greg rutted slowly, his erection sliding next to Mycroft’s, leaving a damp trail of pre-come.

“God you’re so beautiful!”

“Insanity.” Mycroft murmured, kissing Greg again, pulling him close. They moved together slowly.

“I’ve been thinking about this for days.” Greg moaned. He lifted a tube of lubricant and squeezed a generous amount on his palm and reached down and took both of them in his hand. “God, I love the way you smell… “

Mycroft gasped and thrust his prick through the tight ring of Greg’s fist. They’d stolen time together over the past six days — a few minutes here and there, neither able to completely relax for fear Mummy would notice something. She wouldn’t need to catch them in flagrante — an indiscreet look or a too-happy smile, whisker burn around Mycroft’s mouth or the scent of Greg’s cologne lingering on his skin — that’s all it would take for Mummy to catch on. And Sherlock was _everywhere_! He had the preternatural ability to be on hand whenever Mycroft thought he might be able to be alone with Greg.

Sherlock had looked at Mycroft strangely more than once over the last few days… but if he were suspicious, he hadn’t said anything… 

This hour together in Jempey’s flat was the first time Mycroft had been able to relax as he had during those wonderful five days before his family had returned to Belgium.

“I won’t last long.” He panted, back arching as Greg’s hand picked up speed. “Fuck! Yes! Like that…!”

Their kisses turned sloppy as climax approached, Mycroft gripping Greg’s back as they moved together. 

“You’re so gorgeous…” Greg murmured against Mycroft’s jaw. “God! So gorgeous… come for me, gorgeous. Come for me…”

Mycroft obliged, crying out soundlessly as the jolting waves of pleasure wracked his body. As he arched off the bed, Greg stiffened and groaned and spurted across Mycroft’s belly. They clung together, panting, riding out the ecstasy in each other’s arms.

Afterwards they luxuriated in the afterglow, touching and kissing and murmuring softly, laughing a bit and simply being close. Mycroft did not care that he was a sticky mess, he would not let go of Greg until he absolutely had to. 

That time came much too soon. Leaving the bed, leaving Greg’s arms, made him want to weep. Only the thought of Uncle Rudy and Mummy waiting at Garin House forced him up and away from his lover. He went to the loo to clean himself off, using a wet flannel to scrub the mess from his stomach. When he’d finished, Greg, back in his soft trousers, had sorted his kit laying it all out for him to don.

“Tomorrow.” Greg said. “We’ll have some time tomorrow.”

Mycroft glanced at him, saw the hopeful look in his eyes. “Sherlock…” He started.

Greg’s arms closed around him. “You’re smarter than Sherlock.” He said. 

“Yes. But he is more devious.”

Greg laughed, a glorious sound! “If nothing else, we’ll have lunch together. And then I’ll hand you your arse on the racecourse.”

“Cocky.” Mycroft kissed him. “We’ll see who hands what to whom.”

When he was dressed, he went to the kitchen for his bike. Greg followed him — they lingered in Jempey’s kitchen kissing, desperate for one more minute… one more kiss… one more moment together.

—-

Boxing Day saw the Holmses waking in Loenhout to race DVV Trofee Azencross. 

The night before, they’d run into Greg and Boy Hermans at the hotel “by chance.” 

Mycroft still clung to the afterglow from their liaison earlier in the day, still floating along on a cloud of joy, not allowing himself to dwell upon the misery of another night alone. Greg appearing, striding through the lobby, encountering Mummy and Father almost felt like a mirage.

The two parties had had dinner together, Father sitting next to Hermans talking animatedly about coaching strategies, Sherlock stuck between Mycroft and Greg, expounding on the stupidity of romance as they watched young Watson at an adjacent table, pulling one of the older Junior Women. 

“How did he ever get a contract with Amstel — all he thinks about is his libido.”

“Maybe he really likes her.” Greg suggested. “Did you think of that?”

“Don’t be stupid — you can see how he’s eying up the waitress.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock...”

“Just because _you_ have a new romance doesn’t mean _he_ wants anything more than intercourse.”

Greg, barely stopping a spit take, choked on the mouthful of water instead. “How do you — _why_ do you think I have a new, erm, romance?”

“Because it’s obvious.” Sherlock assured him, gleefully waiting for Greg to ask how he knew.

“Well... you’re wrong.” Greg protested, keeping his eyes away from Mycroft. 

“No, I’m not.” Sherlock insisted. “The cologne you are wearing is new. And it’s much more expensive than what you would get yourself — or from a family member. And it suits you — whomever bought it has spent time close to you and picked this scent out especially. That is ‘romantic.’”

Mycroft had given Greg the cologne during their assignation at Jempey’s flat. He _had_ chosen it specially for Greg, knowing it would suit him well.

“You’re right.” Greg mumbled. “That _is_ very romantic.” 

Mycroft felt his face heat with pleasure — and then fear. Luckily, Mummy had joined the conversation about coaching strategies. He kept his eyes studiously on his plate, hoping he appeared unconcerned.

“I was right!” Sherlock crowed. “I expect you gave her something more _meaningful_ than expensive.”

Greg cleared his throat. “Erm, why do you say that?”

“Because I’ve _met you_.” Sherlock sneered, and Mycroft could not help but laugh. Sherlock was completely correct. “See, Mycroft knows I’m right.”

“Well, I just hope _she_ likes it.” Greg grumbled, looking a little lost and a little indignant.

“I’m certain she does.” Mycroft purred. He could feel the thin band of leather fastened around his wrist just above his watch. Greg had presented it shyly, the narrow black strip with its delicate buckle, turning it over to show Mycroft the inscription on the inside of the band: “I miss you so much.”

“I don’t know if you can wear it.” Greg had rumbled. “If it would get you in trouble. But... I miss you every second we’re apart.”

Mycroft had kissed him, overcome with sentiment, and asked him to fasten it around his wrist. “My sleeve will hide it.” He assured Greg, hoping he was correct. 

Thus far, it had. 

Mycroft was worried about tomorrow — though it was the same colour as his watchband, he fretted that someone would notice it whilst he changed into his kit on the bus, changed for the podium (if he had the good fortune to be on the podium) in the communal tent after the race, or when he pushed up his sleeves to allow doping control to take blood... sharp-eyed Sherlock or ever-attentive Mummy, they would know immediately what it was, what it signified... but even Anthea or Alun, asking about it in front of Uncle Rudy or Father would call unwanted attention to the gift... wearing it was inexpressibly foolish, but Mycroft could not bring himself to take it off.

The wind gusted through the racers as Mycroft handed his coat and warm gloves to Father. He shivered, composing his expression carefully for the camera. He wondered vaguely what the fans would think if they knew he’d buggered the World Champion less than a week ago — and that the World Champion had _loved_ it.

The lights turned green and Mycroft pumped his pedals, spinning hard to build up speed. The start swung into a field only twenty metres from the start, but the course was wide, the grass trampled flat by the earlier fields. Mycroft fought for position, moving into third place as the peloton reached the tree line. 

The course swung left into the forest onto an uphill trail that had at one time had stairs cut into the hillside shored up by railroad ties. Through time and use and weather, the steps had eroded, the ties displaced, until the path was an uneven dirt ascent littered with large stones and the half-buried ties. 

Mycroft followed Wurst’s wheel up the best line. It wove around some of the railroad ties and over others. It was tricky, keeping traction under the wheels — one needed to push their weight back to keep the rear wheel from slipping out, whilst spinning hard to keep speed up the treacherous hill. Towards the top, the path widened out into a swampy mess with discarded ties strewn haphazardly through it. Van Anrooij, in front of Wurst, slid out in the mud. Mycroft quickly changed course, riding over one of the fat, square, wooden ties into the mud, splashing his way to the front.

The forest ended, another field appearing. A steep little climb — grassy and mostly dry — took him out of the mud and into a series of 180 turns with narrow thirty metre alleys between them. They allowed Mycroft to get a good look at who was behind him. 

Vanthourenhout was on his wheel, Drucker and Maier close behind. Wurst was next, attempting to close a gap. He had five riders with him, Greg Lestrade fourth in line. Mycroft smiled inside as Greg deftly sprinted ahead of two racers where the course was almost too narrow to allow it.

By the third 180, Greg was on Maier’s wheel, Wurst right behind him. 

In the power section — still matted grass — Mycroft let himself fly, enjoying the freedom of riding hard. It was thrilling, the wind gusting across the bald hilltop, trying to push him into the yellow caution tape barrier — Mycroft didn’t yield, wrestling his handlebars into line until the course curved enough to put the wind at his back.

The off camber was very steep, a chain link fence at the bottom. It too had been covered in grass, but the races before them had dug ruts into the hillside. Mycroft leapt off his bike to run around a downhill corner on the side of the precipitous slope and ran to the top knowing he could not ride up from a standing stop. 

Remounting, Mycroft laboured into the headwind, laying down big watts to speed through the field back into the trees. The descent down towards the start/finish was straight and steep and pointed directly at a merrily babbling brook. Mycroft swerved close to the water without touching his brakes, making the corner by the skin of his teeth and using the speed from the downhill to jump his bike over the planks that crossed the course.

He flew past the bike pit then doubled back to the brook. The course took them through it — he could choose to ride across a board that lay across the water, or simply ride through the cold water. As he was first, Mycroft chose the board, preferring it to possibly encountering loose or sharp stones below the water. He felt it shift slightly under his wheels, but the racer behind him rode onto it and it stabilised. 

From there the course took them back across the lower field, twisting into the wind and back around to pick up the blustery crosswinds. He jumped his bike over a ditch, rode the short rhythm section then curved into a second power section back towards the start/finish, the wind at his back.

The field reshuffled as they rode back towards the woods. Mycroft allowed Greg ahead of him but stuck out his elbow to keep Drucker from passing as well.

Following Greg up the choppy, uneven ascent was a joy. He was so steady, so sure! He climbed faultlessly — and fast — weaving around and over the old railroad ties adeptly. Mycroft’s heart sang as he trailed this beautiful man up the racecourse. Greg splashed into the swampy puddle near the top spraying mud up onto his legs and Mycroft’s chest. Happiness bubbled up, escaping with his panting breaths.

Perhaps he was being foolish... Mummy — aside from the same-sex issue — would say he was. But Mycroft did not care — Greg was his! That glorious man was his! 

Mycroft raced up the grassy knoll to the 180s. Behind him, Drucker had fallen behind and was effectively blocking Vanthourenhout — the only racer who appeared to have the strength to do more than simply try to survive.

Vanthourenhout tagged onto Greg and Mycroft as they swept into the power sector, gripping their handlebars in the crosswinds, right before the course swung right giving them a tailwind. It blew them to the off camber where they coasted down to the fence and dismounted to run the corner and across and up the hill.

The headwind wasn’t nearly so painful sitting behind Greg — he blocked it so efficiently! Mycroft almost didn’t have to pedal.

Down the hill, to skim the vinyl beer banners that separated the course from the brook, swooping around to hop the barriers and speed past the pit, crossing the brook, jumping the ditch, riding the whoops into the long, curving power sector back to the start/finish Mycroft drafted behind the World Champion, recovering.

This time, they let Vanthourenhout take the lead, chasing him up the choppy path. He rode it well — Mycroft was reminded what an excellent racer he was — and took them into the upper field. Mycroft had several opportunities to pass him, but he was content at this point in the race to save his energy for the final laps.

In the fourth lap, Wurst bridged up to them, tagging onto the back of the group. Greg immediately attacked — they were fighting the blustery crosswinds when he went. Mycroft went with him — or tried anyway. Swinging around into the headwind, seeing the gap between them, Mycroft almost sat up. But he caught a glimpse of the racers behind him — he had dislodged Vanthourenhout! And Wurst, drained from chasing them, was further back still. 

That was all he needed to see — he was _crushing their dreams_! He was _killing their spirit_! Mycroft struggled on, working hard to increase the gap between himself and Vanthourenhout. The off camber was a blessed if brief respite from the wind and at the top he leapt upon his bike in the tailwind. It was amazing how strong one felt in a tailwind!

The wind gusted across the descent as Mycroft flew down — he had to wrestle his handlebars to keep them on track. It interfered with his ability to turn away from the brook at the bottom and he smashed into the banners, coming off his bike. Before he had even stopped skidding, Mycroft was scrambling to his feet and grabbing up his bike. He ran a few steps and remounted, noting out of the corner of his eye that Vanthourenhout was halfway down the hill. Mycroft sprinted, standing up on his pedals, attempting to recover his speed, but the Dutchman caught him just as they reached the hurdles. They went over together, hopping — and somehow colliding! Thijs fell hard on the second plank whilst Mycroft was able to brake and get a foot on the ground before coming a’cropper. He dismounted but had to untangle his bike from Vanthourenhout’s before he could lift his over the second plank. 

Wurst caught him as he began to ride — as Vanthourenhout picked himself up. Mycroft rode into the pit for a fresh bike and had to sprint hard to catch back onto Wurst’s wheel. By then, Vanthourenhout had caught up.

Greg was far ahead, on track to win barring some misfortune. Mycroft was outnumbered and feeling cross — he wasn’t normally so clumsy! The gusty wind be damned, Mycroft should have been able to keep his seat. 

He forced himself to put it behind him and as they went through the start/finish to begin the fifth lap, he went to the front and led up the forest trail with it’s haphazard railroad ties. Mycroft focussed on the joy that riding it at race pace ignited within him. He splashed through the bog at the top, building up momentum for the short, steep climb. In the 180s, he saw that Vanthourenhout’s face was a rictus of pain, teeth gritted, lips pulled back, mucous hanging in a long line from his nose, wobbling as he inhaled.

Mycroft felt the effort, but he wasn’t in pain. He wasn’t sure that he could drop Vanthourenhout again, but he certainly had the energy left to attempt it. He allowed the Dutchman to pass him as they swooped into the power section. He tagged onto the bigger man’s wheel and let him fight the crosswind and then the headwind. Mycroft followed him the rest of the lap.

In lap six, Vanthourenhout slipped in the off camber. Mycroft dismounted in an instant and ran past him, up the hill and gunned it in the tailwind. He managed the downhill perfectly this time, railing the corner and flying over the planks. He almost lost it crossing the brook, but he had the balance of a cat, and kept himself and his bike upright without losing speed. He rode around the meadow, hopping the ditch, charging through the little bumps of the rhythm section and fighting the wind. For the first time, Mycroft crossed the start/finish on his own. 

He concentrated on the course after that, concentrated on riding it as perfectly and quickly as possible. By keeping the pressure on, Mycroft slowly increased his lead over Vanthourenhout. 

Another lap and he began to think about catching up to Greg — he caught glimpses of him ahead now and again as he disappeared around a corner. Mycroft fancied that he was getting closer.

He got the bell at the start of lap nine — he had one lap to catch Greg, who was barrelling across the field ahead of him. He disappeared into the trees before Mycroft had gone half the distance. Mycroft once again reached for his mental toughness, his iron, icy self-will and assured himself that he _could_ win this race! He gunned it up the hill, balancing his weight perfectly to keep traction on the hazardous track. By the top, his heart was hammering and his legs aching, but he did not allow himself to slow. Throughout the lap, he closed in on Greg, reducing the seconds between them. By the time he plunged down the descent, it was only eleven seconds! 

Mycroft pushed himself hard. He visualised catching and passing the World Champion, crossing the line first… but it did not happen. Greg had too much of a lead, he was too good. He rode over the finish line, arms aloft, whilst Mycroft was a small figure in the distance. Mycroft was second, Vanthourenhout third, Wurst fourth.

It felt as though his lungs had been doused in paint stripper and turned inside out. Uncle Rudy had firm hold of his bike and Mycroft bent his head over the bars and panted — the last lap had been an epic ride, he discovered later that it was the fastest than any rider had ridden any of the laps by almost ten seconds! But that random variable, luck, had not favoured him this time around.

\----

But it was afterwards that true disaster struck.

When the podium ceremony was done, after doping control when their chaperones had left them, Mycroft allowed Greg to lead him to a narrow alley between two tents, dim in the fading light of afternoon. There behind a tent flap, they kissed, mouths frantic with need. They held each other tightly, panting with frustrated desire and longing, and consumed each other. Eyes screwed tight, knees thrust between thighs, hands gripping and pulling, lips and tongues moving, exploring, stroking, they tried desperately to get their fill of each other — to find a way to leave each other behind once again. 

It ripped at Mycroft, having to hide this bright happiness — and hide his distress when they were apart. 

Eventually, they stood breathless, foreheads pressed together in an embrace they were reluctant to let go. “I will see you in two days.” Mycroft murmured. “In Diegem.”

“Two days!” Greg muttered. “What will I do without you?”

Mycroft smiled, even though the time sat heavily on his heart. “We will survive.”

“I miss you so much.” Greg whispered and kissed him deeply…

_Snap_!

“What was that?!” Mycroft sprang back from his lover. His cheeks flaming as he came face-to-face with Sherlock. The boy looked stricken. “Sherlock…” He began.

“You promised!” Sherlock cried, shoving his brother with all his might. “I hate you!” Then his eyes snagged on Greg and widened in shock. For a moment they were all suspended there, staring at each other. Then Sherlock turned on his heel and ran.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft cried, starting after him.

“No, My — let me.” Greg stopped Mycroft with a touch. “Let me talk to him. It’ll be OK, I promise.” With a last intense look, Greg jogged after Sherlock leaving Mycroft alone with his terror. 

He lingered there, between the tents. Mycroft could still feel Sherlock’s hands on his chest, still feel the stumble backwards into the canvas wall of the tent. He could still feel Greg’s lips on his neck, his fingers touching him through his clothes…

The two sensations warred as he attempted to catch his breath. But his lungs refused to fill and he panted painfully. Sherlock would tell Mummy. Sherlock would tell Mummy and Mycroft would never see them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They miss each other quite desperately — how long will they be able to carry on like this, snatching ten minutes here, an hour there? And now Sherlock knows — will he run directly to Mummy or will Greg be able to convince him to keep quiet?
> 
> This is a description of a course that I raced myself — one of my favorites! One year, it was so wet, I was absolutely covered in mud by the end. Mud was thick on my face — I had mud on my teeth. Another year, it was Halloween and I rode in a sparkly ice skating costume instead of my usual team kit. This race was always super hard and super fun!
> 
> Thank you all for your comments! In addition to my four die-hard subscribers, I'm delighted to have a Russian reader now — welcome Mirilissa. AND welcome to CelandineB, who is Belgian and knows cyclocross! I feel so legit.


	13. BREDENE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Year's Eve.

On the morning of New Year’s Eve, the Holmes bus pulled into Bredene, a city on the English Channel, a stone’s throw from Dunkirk and Callais, mere minutes from Bruges.

It was colder there, the wind whipping inland from the water. But for once Mycroft barely felt it. He would see Greg again soon! He had not been alone with his lover since Sherlock had discovered them and Greg had gone after him, two days before. They had not dared to sneak off together at the race the next day and Mycroft had not dared to even attempt to meet up with Greg during the long day without a race — the terrible uncertainty of what his brother would do with his knowledge of their affair had kept Mycroft isolated. 

It was a relief to have a race to focus on again. Bredene was part of a lesser series, Ethias Cross. It did not keep track of who won and placed in each race on an overall scoreboard as the World Cup, DVV Trofee and the Superprestige series did. All the Ethias races were one-offs. But the races were well planned and expertly run, the purses were fat and the appearance fees for the better-known riders were ample. And this race, this New Year’s Eve race was a night race — they would ride in the dark under electric lights in the hours before the New Year. Bredene was popular — every pro cyclocross racer wanted to be at Bredene.

Afterwards, though there was a party, none of the racers would drink in the new year — on New Year’s Day, every cyclocross racer would be at the Sven Nys DVV Trofee race, designed by and named for the great cyclocross champion of ten years ago.

With back-to-back races, Mummy thought it best that they get to the hotel early so Mycroft could rest for a few hours. Despite his fears, Mycroft was determined to find a way to slip out of his room, away from Sherlock, and meet with Greg. 

Sherlock had watched him, but he had not spoken to Mycroft since he’d stumbled upon him kissing Greg. He had not spoken to Mummy or Father either, apparently — there had been no explosion of anger and recrimination. 

The Diegem Superprestige the day after Sherlock’s discovery had been a comfort — a way for Mycroft to burn off some of the terrible tension that his brother _knowing_ had caused. And he had seen Greg.

Not privately. Sherlock had dogged their heels all day long, following them as they encountered one another pre-riding the course, talked with other racers, and ate lunch together. He was their truculent shadow until they separated to prepare for the race. Sherlock ensured their time together was frustratingly chaste. 

Mycroft did not know what Greg had said to his brother — Greg only told him the matter was sorted: _Don’t worry, Slim._ He’d texted as Mycroft sat on the bus awaiting doom. _Sherlock’s a good kid. He gets it._ What Sherlock ‘got’ was a mystery to Mycroft — the boy could barely look at him all the ride home that evening. Mycroft had not the first idea what to say — how to broach the subject, how to speak to his brother about his sexuality, his relationship with Greg…

He prayed that Greg was correct, that his words had swayed Sherlock 

As the Holmes group checked into the hotel in Bredene, Anthea looked Mycroft up and down. “Why don’t you come to my room.” She said. “Your back is looking out of alignment. Is it bothering you at all?”

Hiding his astonishment — Anthea never remarked upon his physicality in public — Mycroft answered her. “No.” He said. She gave him a pointed look. “But... my left hip has been feeling… a bit achy the last day or so.” It wasn’t true, but Anthea nodded, seeming satisfied. 

“I’ll set up the massage table.” She said. “Come to my room after you’ve settled in.”

“I shall.” Mycroft said. He turned to discover both Mummy and Sherlock staring at him. “Yes?”

Sherlock looked away. 

“You haven’t said anything about your hip.” Mummy accused.

“It’s hardly anything.” Mycroft protested.

“Anthea noticed.”

“It’s Anthea’s _job_ to notice.” Mycroft reminded her. “And she does her job very well.”

Mummy nodded. “You’ll tell me if the ache persists? The last thing you need is a chronic injury.”

“I shall.” Mycroft vowed, placating his mother. 

He followed Sherlock to their room — adjacent to Mummy and Father’s, which was less than ideal. He wondered what Anthea wanted. He doubted it was about his back’s alignment.

Sherlock flopped onto his bed, walking his feet up the wall and watched as Mycroft began unpacking his duffel. Abruptly, he broke his sullen silence. “Why did you do it to him?” He demanded.

The words jolted Mycroft. He stopped unpacking, racing shoe in hand, and turned slowly to his brother. “Why did I do what to whom?” He felt ill.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock snarled. “Why did you make him… _like you_!?”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed, anxiety and exasperation warring within him. “No one can _make_ anyone gay — or bisexual. Sexuality is not a… a monolith, there is a range. Greg Lestrade was certain of his sexuality long before he met me.”

“But he had a girlfriend!”

“Yes. He did.” Mycroft said. “And now he doesn’t.” He was sorely tempted to say, _And now he has a boyfriend,_ but he was afraid to push his luck with his volatile little brother. “You can’t imagine that I _forced_ him.”

“No…” Sherlock looked at him speculatively, his face hanging upside-down over the edge of his bed. “Mycroft, you _promised_.” The anguish in his voice cut Mycroft to the bone.

“I did.” Mycroft said. He sat down on his bed. “And I intended to keep that promise. The last thing I want is to be estranged from you and our parents.”

“Then why…!”

“Do you remember Redbeard?” He asked softy.

Sherlock scoffed. “My dog?”

“Yes. You were never supposed to have a dog — too messy. Too much fuss. But the Trevors’ bitch had a litter and you would not stay away. You informed the rest of us that you were bringing a puppy home and that his name was ‘Redbeard.’ Mummy said, ‘no.’ Father said, ‘maybe when you’re older.’ Mummy told you that caring is not an advantage. What did you tell them?”

Sherlock scowled. “‘I didn’t mean to care, it just happened and now it was too late. I loved Redbeard and he loved me.’” He parroted. “Lestrade is not a dog!” 

“He is not. But I would give you the same answer now that you gave to Mummy then.” Mycroft closed his eyes and rubbed them tiredly. “I tried to deny it. I sent him away...”

Sherlock harrumphed loudly.

“I did not intend to care, Sherlock, but I do and I cannot rid myself of it. I don’t want to be rid of it. Him.” 

“You said you loved _me_! You said you loved Mummy!”

“I do, very much.”

“But…!”

“If Mummy truly cared about my wellbeing, she would not force me to choose.” The words were out before Mycroft could stop them. His jaw muscles ached with tension.

His brother was silent for a time, digesting this. Finally, he rolled over and looked balefully at Mycroft. “Mummy will murder you when she finds out.”

“That, brother mine, is why I hope Mummy will not find out.” They stared at each other for a long moment — they almost always had each other’s back where their parents were concerned. When Sherlock had told Mummy about Mycroft and the gardener’s boy, he hadn’t known she would react so explosively. Perhaps now that he did… 

Mycroft deduced his brother’s deep uncertainty in the restlessness of his legs and the twitches of his fingers. But at least he was talking.

Sherlock huffed and flopped onto his back. He shut his eyes. Apparently, the conversation was over — so much for talking. “I’m going to see Anthea.” Mycroft announced and left him there.

Knocking on his soigneur’s door, he reflected on how strange it was that she had commented on his back alignment. It was completely out of character — she only spoke about such things in private, never in a hotel lobby. And never in front of Mummy. Mummy would plague her about his back and hips, worrying about Mycroft’s fitness to race. 

He had hoped to spend this time with Greg…

When Anthea opened the door and ushered him inside, Mycroft knew instantly that something was afoot — some mischief in which she expected him to participate. “What is it?” He asked her. “What’s going on?”

She pressed a card into his hand. “Room 344.” She said. “Take the stairs, not the elevator.”

Mycroft stared — at her, at the hotel logo on the card in his hand. “What is going on?” He asked again.

Anthea took his hand and wrapped his fingers around the key card. “Lestrade’s room.” She said softly. 

Choking on his own breath, Mycroft almost dropped the card. “What…? Why…?” He spluttered.

“It’s alright, Mycroft.” She said. “You don’t have to worry.”

He shut his eyes against the knowledge, against the shock. _How did she know_?! What did she think that she knew? Had Greg _told_ her?! Had _Sherlock_?!

“Calm down.” Anthea clasped both his hands in hers. “Your friendship with him is beautiful. I can see how happy it makes you both. Lestrade swears up and down that it is strictly platonic… and it’s none of my business either way.” She squeezed his hands. “I ran into him earlier and told him that I would give you this on the QT. Go, Mycroft. Be with him. If anyone asks, you can say that you have been with me all afternoon.”

He felt his speeding pulse begin to slow, felt the need to scream begin to fade. He blinked several times, attempting to regain his composure. “Thank you, Anthea.” He whispered.

“It’s my pleasure, Mycroft.” She said with a cheeky smile. “Remember, take the stairs — 344 is right next to them.” Anthea pushed him gently towards the door. “Go.”

With a very small, hesitant smile, Mycroft left her room. In the stairwell, he texted Greg, telling him he had the key and was on his way. Ninety seconds later, he stood in front of room 344 — which was indeed next to the stairwell. He dipped the card into the reader and pushed Greg’s hotel room door open.

Greg was shirtless, the dark hair on his belly disappearing into the warm up trousers he wore. As soon as the door snicked shut, he pulled Mycroft into his arms and buried his face in his neck. 

Mycroft took a deep breath and as Greg’s scent filled his nose, all his anxiety melted away. He could not worry about Sherlock and Anthea with Greg’s arms around him. This was an island untouched by the raging storms outside its door.

“You’re here.” Greg breathed. Mycroft felt his smile against his skin. Rough fingers stroked calming circles on his neck and he felt the last of his tension evaporate. He pulled Greg’s face up and kissed him softly. He had been longing for this non-stop.

Greg returned the kiss, his arms tightening as he traced the seam of Mycroft’s lips with his tongue. With a happy groan, Mycroft deepened the kiss. Arousal washed through his body, hardening his nipples and sending a rush of blood to his cock.

“You’re here.” Greg repeated. ”Missed you... missed you...” He steered them towards the bed and broke the kiss just long enough to ruck the coverlet back, exposing the white sheets. 

Lust overtook Mycroft, and he pushed Greg down onto the bed and crawled on top of him. They kissed, their mouths fitting together perfectly, their bodies aligned, warmth and affection surrounding them.

“So gorgeous...” Greg nuzzled his neck and his thick arousal pressed against Mycroft’s belly. Mycroft moved to rub his own erection alongside. The friction was intense. “Your clothes…” Greg mumbled, tugging at Mycroft’s shirt. “Take off your clothes.”

Mycroft obliged, kneeling up to strip the shirt over his head. Greg’s fingers worked open the fastening of his trousers and shoved them down his hips, revealing the obscene tent in Mycroft’s black boxer briefs. Greg mouthed his member through the fabric, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s hips. 

Then, with an ease that startled Mycroft, Greg reversed their positions, rolling Mycroft down onto his back and kneeling between his legs. He freed Mycroft’s prick from his pants and Mycroft found his fingers in Greg’s hair as he sucked the sensitive glans into his mouth. He moaned, his fingers curling into fists.

“Have to get these off.” Greg mumbled. He kissed Mycroft’s cock then backed away, pulling Mycroft’s pants and trousers from his legs and tossing them to the floor. Greg spent a second releasing the drawstring of his warm up trousers and stepping out of them before returning to his place between Mycroft’s legs. He cupped Mycroft’s balls with his hand as he licked the swollen shaft. He rubbed Mycroft’s perineum with his forefinger, eliciting another moan.

“Is there lubricant?” Mycroft gasped. He wanted — no, he _needed_ — Greg’s fingers inside him. 

“Yeah.” Greg scrambled over to pluck a bottle from the bed table and squeezed some of the viscous gel onto his hand. He returned his mouth to Mycroft’s cock as he let it warm. Mycroft spread his legs wider, hoping his lover would understand the urgency he felt. He must have, Greg nipped the inside of his thigh and moved the tip of his finger in slow circles around Mycroft’s entrance.

They had not done this since they’d been alone at Garin House those wonderful five days, safe in Greg’s barn. Mycroft took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, attempting to relax.

Greg pressed his finger into Mycroft’s hole, easing through the knot of muscle. “OK?” He asked. 

Mycroft took a few seconds to adjust to the intrusion. He liked the stretch but he knew how uncomfortable it could be if they went too quickly. “Yes.” He said when he was ready. Greg slid his finger in farther, frigging back and forth gently. Then he grinned and bent his finger. 

Mycroft gasped and arched his back, pushing Greg’s finger deeper inside, strafing the sensitive bundle of nerves in the process. Sparks flew beneath his clenched eyelids. 

When he opened his eyes, he found Greg watching him. Their eyes met and Greg grinned. “Good?”

“Yes.” Mycroft panted, rocking his hips to facilitate the movement of Greg’s finger. “I want you… I want you inside me.” The words fell from his lips before Mycroft had fully formed the thought, but it was true — he wanted to be as close to Greg as possible.

Greg’s head popped up, searching Mycroft’s face. “You mean…?”

“Yes. Our tests came back clean. I want to have intercourse. I… I want to feel you.”

He watched his lover take a deep breath his pupils blown wide with desire. “You’re… you’re sure?”

Mycroft scoffed. “I didn’t think I’d have to beg you to fuck me.”

Greg smiled at him, his eyes adoring. “Yeah… no… you don’t have to beg.”

“I trust you.” Mycroft told him, touching his face.

Nodding, Greg kissed his fingers. He picked up a pillow. “Lift your hips.” He instructed and placed the pillow underneath Mycroft’s bum when he complied. Greg applied more lubricant to his fingers and resumed frigging him. 

“More.” Mycroft requested.

Greg pressed a second finger into Mycroft’s hole beside the first. He continued the slow, steady fucking as he pressed kisses to the shaft of Mycroft’s prick.

Mycroft could not stifle another moan. It felt so good, Greg’s mouth and tongue and fingers all servicing him. He hoisted himself up onto his elbows and watched Greg lick the precome from the slit of his cock — Greg’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he stretched his lips around Mycroft’s member. Mycroft had never seen anything so lewd, so erotic.

Greg spread his fingers inside him, one lightly touching his prostate, making him writhe. He quickened the pace — then abruptly slowed and eased a third finger in.

Mycroft had never taken three. He felt full, stretched, on the edge of discomfort. He again took a deep breath and expelled it slowly, willing his body to relax. Greg’s fingers moved gingerly forward and his mouth closed around Mycroft’s prick. Mycroft closed his eyes and allowed the sensations to wash through him — the pleasure grew and grew and then exploded as Greg curled his fingers to massage the sensitive spot. Mycroft moaned.

Greg spread his fingers and continued to move in and out, carefully stretching him open. He kissed Mycroft’s cock, licked the shaft, but most of his attention had turned to his hand moving inside Mycroft. Mycroft was glad — much more stimulation and he would not be able to hold back his climax.

“I’m ready.” Mycroft said. “I’m ready. Please.”

Greg examined his face. Apparently satisfied by what he saw, he chuckled and carefully withdrew his fingers. He leaned up to kiss Mycroft. “Do you want to be on top?” He asked. 

“Like this.” Mycroft told him. “Just like this.”

“God, you’re gorgeous.” Greg murmured as they kissed. “So fucking gorgeous.”

Kneeling up, he took the bottle of lube and coated his cock, glancing at Mycroft’s face almost shyly. Greg positioned himself and Mycroft inhaled deeply and exhaled, attempting to ready himself… but he found that looking at Greg’s face was enough to calm him, relax his body. Greg lifted Mycroft’s legs, rolling his pelvis into a better position. Mycroft felt the blunt head of Greg’s cock against his hole.

Mycroft gasped as Greg breeched him — he was bigger than Mycroft had expected, he was huge! Impossibly huge. He grimaced and Greg wrapped a hand around his prick and stroked, smearing lube down the shaft. Mycroft shivered, his entire body a confused mass of pleasure and pain.

Greg kissed him tenderly, stroking his thighs and his cock until the stretch did not feel so uncomfortable. He bore down and nodded. Greg entered him slowly, inexorably. Mycroft tried to blink away the tears that pooled in his eyes, but they fell, rolling down his temples into his hair. Time stretched and slowed into endlessness before Greg was fully seated inside him.

Greg gazed at him anxiously. Mycroft pulled him down into a messy kiss and they lingered over it, Greg’s hand slowly jacking Mycroft’s prick — it had flagged during penetration but now it returned to full excitement. Mycroft wrapped his legs around Greg’s waist and rolled his hips experimentally. 

It felt good — no, it felt _divine_. Mycroft gasped and smiled. Greg grinned back at him, dropping kisses along his jaw. “You’re so beautiful.” He murmured. “So gorgeous…”

Greg began to move, slowly, and oh! It was good! Panting, Mycroft wrapped his hand around Greg’s nape and kissed him again, desperation making him sloppy. Their teeth clashed and Greg’s movements gained speed and certainty. Mycroft clawed at his back.

Lifting Mycroft’s legs higher, Greg changed the angle of penetration, strafing Mycroft’s prostate with his cock with every movement in and every movement out. The desperate curse Mycroft heard might have come from his own lips, he could not say. He rolled his hips in rhythm with Greg’s thrusts, wanting — needing — more! 

“More.” He gasped. “Please…”

Greg panted against his shoulder as he increased power, plunging his cock deeply inside Mycroft — so deep as to touch his soul, his heart. Mycroft was made of pure sensation, nothing else. He clutched Greg close. Greg! His Greg! His lover! His impossible, wonderful lover! 

As he pulled back, Mycroft felt Greg’s hot breath against his jaw, saw something akin to reverence in his eyes as he gazed down at him. It was overwhelming! He thought he saw a tear fall down Greg’s cheek…

Greg’s broad palm stroked his cock as he thrust, and abruptly Mycroft was coming. Fireworks burst behind his eyelids, lightning struck and he shoved his fist against his mouth to dampen his cries. He felt Greg shudder, his rhythm stutter, and Mycroft lost track of everything but the great rolling waves of ecstasy rushing through him, carrying him away...

Long moments later, he found Greg collapsed on his chest, sweaty and spent. Mycroft’s thighs ached from gripping Greg’s hips, but still, he was floating on pure bliss. 

“I love you.” Mycroft told Greg, startling himself. He had not meant to say it! He braced himself for disappointment.

But Greg’s smile lit the entire world. “Love you too, My. I love you so much. You make me happier than I’ve ever been.”

Mycroft could not hide his joy — he stared at Greg thunderstruck until their mouths met again, sealing their bond. A resistance Mycroft hadn’t known he’d been harbouring melted away. He had never felt so light. He had never felt so unafraid.

\----

The men’s elite race was scheduled to begin soon after twilight. Strong electric lights shone down on the starting line, on the racers amassed there. Father took Mycroft’s jacket and squeezed his shoulder.

Mycroft still had an ache in his nether region as he was called to the line — he liked the reminder of the afternoon’s activities. He chose the spot next to Greg, and Greg grinned at him happily. 

Greg loved him! 

Mycroft had said “I love you’ and the sky had not fallen, Greg had not scoffed, nor had he hedged or hemmed. Greg loved him! They were in love!

More surprisingly, Mycroft believed Greg with his entire heart. He had long thought his brain would hold out against the fanciful sentiment of ‘love,’ would rise above the romanticism sending sceptical tendrils of doubt into his consciousness, keeping him from true commitment. _But it had not_. Mycroft trusted Greg completely, with his whole heart. They belonged to each other.

Greg’s shining smile told Mycroft that he felt the same, that he was utterly committed.

It was amazing.

The whistle blew and Mycroft pedalled furiously, his overflowing happiness propelling him forward faster than ever before. He got the hole shot — something much more suited to Greg’s and Thijs Vanthourenhout’s physiology than his own. This course was pan flat and the dry weather made it brutally fast — not a course tailored to his talents. It would favour pure power over skill. Mycroft wanted to do well to prove that he was competitive on all terrain, on any sort of course. To prove that he was a versatile and resilient racer.

Mycroft led the pack around a long, wide turn into the sand pit, shifting into an easier gear as he ploughed into the treacherous grit. He spun 110 rpms as his rear wheel floundered in the deep sand, but he managed to ride the entire length without dismounting. He flew over the grass, around a sharp 180, and down another long straight. The corner allowed Mycroft to see who was behind him — the sand had strung out the pack somewhat, but there was still a knot twenty strong of riders trailing his wheel.

Another 180 and the course doubled back on itself again, he had to exert himself to stay in first place. Mycroft dismounted for the flyover, running up the steps two at a time, leaping back into the saddle and clipping into his pedals on the way back down. Another power straight took them around a footie field towards a dense copse of trees. Mycroft plunged in and onto a long section of single track. He was glad to be in front — no one could pass him here and no one could hold him back.

The rough track required some skill — it was much darker in the forest and tree roots and large rocks speckled the trail. Riding around them or over them would slow a less adept rider. Mycroft rode it swiftly, swinging around trees and jumping a fallen log with ease. The course designer had made a meal of the little forest, taking them back and forth around trees and stone outcroppings — the electric lights strung over the trail barely illuminated all the hazards. Mycroft heard the familiar sound of brakes squealing and racers cursing as someone came off and held up the riders behind. 

The copse ended at a narrow brook. Mycroft attempted to jump it, but it was wide and his rear wheel splashed down. He instinctually adjusted his weight back, ensuring he had the traction necessary to ride up the bank.

The course led into a fallow field, banners and orange netting strung along metal poles driven deep into the earth showing the wending way through. Mycroft had pre-ridden this course, and found the ploughed dirt deep and sticky, grabbing at his wheels almost like mud. It had been raked since the pro women’s race, making it appear deceptively smooth.

Mycroft powered into the field and immediately sunk into the fertile ground. It slowed him and Lestrade passed him, laying down big watts to propel himself forward. Mycroft grabbed onto his wheel and found it slightly easier if he stayed in the furrow left by Lestrade’s wheels.

Dirt built up on his tires and began to gum up his drive train. Mycroft leapt off and picked up his bike as he ran across the field. His feet sunk into the loam to the ankles — it was worse than running in sand, almost as bad as running in deep, sucking mud. 

Dismounting was the right move. He ran past Lestrade — who was also forced to run — and emerged from the field first once again. He pedalled madly, but his feet slipped — the cleats on the bottom of his shoes were packed with dirt and he was unable to clip into his pedals. He could put his feet on top of the pedals and push down, but he could not pull the pedals up — halving his power output. He laboured down another long, straight alley until he mercifully reached the bike pit. Mycroft rode in and dismounted smoothly, grabbing the fresh bike Father held out. As he did this, Alun sprayed his feet with water. Mycroft paused a few extra seconds to allow him to dislodge the dirt from his cleats. 

Lestrade, Vanthourenhout and Wurst had passed him in the pit. Mycroft sprinted to catch them up — then realised that all three were having issues with their own cleats. They had not paused to have them cleaned out. He passed them by easily and managed to open up a bike length before he reached the planks. Mycroft bunny-hopped the barriers and rode around a corner that allowed him to see the others had dismounted and run the barriers — uncertain of their ability to successfully hop their bikes over the obstacles without being securely clipped into their pedals.

Mycroft gunned his bike, sprinting into the spiral pinwheel, riding the ever-smaller circles without touching his brakes until he reached the centre and reversed direction. Lestrade was ten seconds back and Vanthourenhout and Wurst another five seconds behind him!

He pressed his advantage through the final power straight into the start/finish, barrelling over the line, onto the grass and curving into the sand pit. Lestrade — _Greg_ — was burning matches in the attempt to catch him and as a result, Wurst and Vanthourenhout were falling farther behind. 

Mycroft maintained his lead through the long straights between the 180s, but Greg was closer every time he doubled back. They reached the flyover almost together and Mycroft maintained first place only because Greg’s exertions required him to rest briefly on the power sector around the footie field. He led them into the single track, attempting to dislodge the world champion in the rocks and trees, but they emerged together. They splashed through the brook and once again rode into the fallow field. 

Vaguely Mycroft wondered what had been grown in the field — Potatoes? Wheat? Beetroot? Whatever the crop had been, it had been harvested and the remains ploughed under.

It was marginally easier to ride this time, the tracks the racers had left on the first lap compacting the earth somewhat. But they both had to dismount and run at least half of the punishing stretch. Again, as they emerged, Mycroft’s cleats were choked with soil.

They powered gingerly down the straight to the bike pit. This time, they both paused to allow the power washer to clean their cleats. They left the pit together before Vanthourenhout reached it.

Mycroft allowed Greg to lead them to the barriers where they both hopped their bikes over the planks gracefully. They flew into the pinwheel and were almost to the centre before Vanthourenhout entered the spiral. Mycroft was content to ride Greg’s wheel out of the pinwheel and through the start/finish.

It was full dark now, the only illumination the lights strung up over the course and the overly-bright lights of the TV cameras. The power straights were well-lit, the sand-pit less so. Mycroft followed Greg in — and was surprised when the world champion was forced to put a foot down. Mycroft leapt from his bike and ran hard through the sand, emerging a wheel in front of Greg. He maintained his lead through the 180s, over the flyover and down the straight into the single track. 

It was not nearly as well-lit in the trees, pitch black shadows obscuring sections of the technical course. Mycroft felt reasonably confident he knew the course well enough now to take a chance. He took a more aggressive line through the single track this time, riding over the bigger rocks and roots instead of around them, his wheels disappearing into the gloom with only Mycroft’s memory and ability to keep him upright. It was a risky strategy — he could possibly gain an advantage, but if he crashed, he would fall behind.

Luck — and skill — were on his side. Mycroft left the trees and jumped the brook more than a bike length in front of Greg. 

The fallow field stretched in front of him, the lights either too-bright or too-weak — they left yellow spots floating in front of his eyes as he plunged into dimness and out again.

Mycroft thought he might be able to ride the whole stretch this time, but once again he was forced off his machine, forced to run through the deep soil. His cleats weren’t as clogged on the other side, he managed to clip one foot into its pedal. It gave him more power as he raced towards the bike pit. 

He still needed a fresh bike, and he again paused very briefly to allow Alun to clean his cleats. By the time he left, Greg had almost caught up to him again. They rode the planks and the pinwheel together, and in the start-finish, Mycroft once again ceded the lead to Greg.

The counter told Mycroft that they had seven laps left to ride. He and Greg had a significant gap over the other racers, it was time to preserve some energy for the last laps. It was time to think about how he could beat Greg Lestrade.

Mycroft allowed Greg to lead the entire lap, following his wheel. He looked for the other man’s weaknesses — but other than a slight disadvantage on the single-track, there was nothing Mycroft could do that Greg could not match.

He stubbornly stayed on Greg’s wheel, refusing to go to the front for three more laps until Vanthourenhout once again appeared behind them. Only then did Mycroft take up the lead and work to re-extend their advantage. 

He took them through the seventh lap and for the first time, rode through the fallow field without having to dismount and run. Trails through the loam had been packed down enough that Mycroft’s bike came out relatively unscathed, shedding the dirt stuck to his tyres in the grass. He opted not to take a fresh bike. 

Greg, on his wheel, scoffed — he had wanted a fresh bike, but passed it up to stay with Mycroft.

They switched places again for the eighth lap, Greg taking them down the power sector into the sand, riding hard down the power straights between the 180s. Mycroft marvelled at the power he was able to lay down — he truly was a thing of beauty, one with his bike, masculine and powerful with the light touch needed in the corners. Mycroft could watch him ride all night long.

After the flyover, Mycroft patted Greg’s hip and passed him, going first into the single track. Greg allowed it, flashing his feral grin as Mycroft rode by. He did not attempt to dislodge Greg on this lap, content to take the easier line and save his strength for the last. They rode through the brook and through the field, again not putting a foot wrong. 

Greg sprinted around Mycroft on the way to the pit and rode in for a fresh bike. After a second’s hesitation, Mycroft followed. He let Greg lead them over the barriers and through the spiral.

They rode lap nine almost identically, Greg on the front through the first half, Mycroft taking over before the single-track. 

This time through the field, Greg dabbed a foot, losing several precious seconds to Mycroft. Mycroft attempted to take advantage, riding hard through the remainder of the field. Emerging two bike lengths ahead, Mycroft eschewed a fresh bike and powered directly to the planks. Greg must have gone through the pit for a new bike — in the pin-wheel, he counted eight seconds between them.

In the start/finish, Mycroft heard the bell — this was the last lap! He gunned it hard around the corner into the long, sweeping power sector. He intended to lay it all down on this lap, leave all his energy on the course — if he couldn’t beat Greg, well, at least he’d know he’d tried his best.

He spun through the sand, standing on his pedals on the other side to build up speed. He barrelled into the 180, grabbing the post and using it to propel him around it at speed. He still had seven seconds on Greg! He tried the same trick on the next 180 and almost went face-first into the cheering crowd. Somehow, he held it upright into the straight and used the momentum to lead into the final 180. This time he braked and rounded it at a sane speed, sprinting out of the corner. 

Mycroft clambered up the flyover and leapt on his bike for the descent — he could hear Greg pounding up the stairs — and again gave 110 percent on the power sector into the trees. 

The single track was his playground — the part of the course where he could gain a true advantage. He took the fastest line, heedless of the dark, of the risks, riding over boulders and leaping his bike over roots and stones and the fallen log. He strained to hear Greg behind him, but his own breathing filled his ears. Mycroft wove through the last few trees and jumped his bike over the brook — he made it farther this time, almost completely clearing the water! It buoyed his spirits as he tore into the fallow field. 

He concentrated, straining his eyes to see the best line, the packed dirt that would carry him through safely and quickly. The people lined up on either side were screaming! Someone shouted Greg’s name and Mycroft knew the world champion was gaining on him.

He flew out of the field and down the power straight towards the bike pit. There was no way he was taking the time for a fresh bike now — he’d ridden this one for three laps and it was still functioning well. Mycroft bunny-hopped the planks and sprinted into the pin-wheel. Now he could see Greg behind him, could see his rictus as he laboured to catch up to Mycroft. He tried to count down the seconds, but he needed all his focus on riding. 

Greg caught his wheel as Mycroft reversed course in the centre of the spiral. Mycroft was still in front, he worked hard to stay there — whoever rode first out of the last corner had an advantage in the sprint. 

Larger and larger circles, his breath loud in his ears, his quads screaming, lactic acid build-up almost unbearably painful. Mycroft shot onto the finishing straight in first place and sprinted for all he was worth! He was going to win!!

He cried out in frustration as Greg passed him — abruptly his strength gave out. His head was too heavy to hold upright and his legs refused to pedal. He coasted as Greg crossed the line. The glitter was still high in the air as Mycroft drifted across behind him. 

Uncle Rudy grabbed him and helped him off his bike. Mycroft stumbled and bent in half, vomiting on the pavement in front of the cameras. Ashamed and still breathless and weak, Mycroft was glad when Father wrapped his arm around his shoulders and led him into the warming tent. He was so exhausted he could not lift his head to look for Greg.

\----

Mycroft yawned hugely as soon as he stepped off the podium. Vanthourenhout elbowed him. “Wake up, Holmes.”

“Leave him be, Thijs.” Greg laughed. “It’s past his bedtime.”

“Are you staying for the party?” Vanthourenhout asked Greg. His wife was waving at him and he changed his trajectory towards her.

“Just for a few minutes.” Greg told him. “Racing tomorrow.” 

Mycroft had promised Sherlock that they would set off his remaining stolen roman candles at midnight — the plan was to put in a token appearance at the party and then head back to the hotel to supervise the fourteen-year-old as he lit the fireworks.

“Me as well.” Thijs said. “But Lu-lu likes the party.” 

“The things you do for love.” Greg said, shooting a tender look at Mycroft. He felt his heart swell with the knowledge that this glorious man _loved him_. 

“Isn’t that your girl, Greg? With Lucinda?” Vanthourenhout asked.

Mycroft had been paying little attention to the banter between Greg and Thijs Vanthourenhout, thinking about how to rush Sherlock through the fireworks so he could get to bed. But abruptly he felt wide awake. He recognised Lucinda Vanthourenhout — a petite brunette who had won the women’s elite race earlier in the evening. Standing with her, bending down to speak with the shorter woman, was Fleur. She was wrapped up against the cold in a puffy coat that did her figure no favours, her face set in a grim smile.

She raised a hand and beckoned hopefully to Greg.

“Oh, yeah. She was…” Greg looked uncertainly at Mycroft. 

“You should talk to her.” Mycroft said. 

“Yeah?” Greg asked doubtfully.

“I do not see how you can avoid it.” Mycroft said, allowing his smirk to show.

“You don’t mind?”

“Me?” He had not considered that Greg would ask after his feelings. The warmth the question engendered flushed his cheeks and made it difficult to hide his smile. He loved Greg Lestrade so much! 

“Not in the least.” Mycroft said. And it was _true_! When he looked at Fleur, Mycroft felt nothing — no jealousy, no anxiety, no petty triumph that she looked heavy in the unflattering coat. Greg loved _him_! After what they had shared earlier that day, Mycroft had let down all his barriers, let Greg into the deepest places in his heart — Mycroft could not have done that if he did not trust Greg completely. He had no doubts. 

They were vibrantly happy together — nothing could change that. Not Mummy, not Sherlock and certainly not Fleur! A new year would begin at midnight, a new life in which Mycroft would have Greg beside him, no matter what happened.

Invisibly in the crush of bodies, in the dark, Mycroft touched Greg’s hand. “Truly, I do not mind.” He assured his love.

Greg smiled an intimate smile, a smile meant just for him. Mycroft felt the force of the other man’s sentiment and it astonished him. “I’d rather be with you.” He murmured.

“I’d rather be with you as well.” Mycroft agreed.

Greg’s hand squeezed Mycroft’s. “You’re the best.”

“I know.”

Laughing, Greg leaned close. “I wish I could kiss you right now.”

Mycroft smiled. “Text me, yeah? Sherlock will want to hold off on the roman candles until you’re there.”

“I will.” Greg said fondly. “See you at the hotel, Slim.”

He watched as Greg pushed through the crowd to Fleur and greeted her. They embraced awkwardly, then Greg said something that made her laugh and her smile began to look natural — she really had a pretty smile. She slipped her hand through his arm and Mycroft watched as they walked away together.

“Such a lovely couple.”

Mycroft jumped — he had not noticed Mummy behind him.

“Mummy.” To cover his unease, Mycroft pushed the bouquet of flowers he’d received on the podium into her hands. “Are we ready to go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What does Fleur want? Greg has not seen her in months.
> 
> Thank you for your comments — I appreciate my readers very much. Hope you're enjoying this fic — drama to come!


	14. SVEN NYS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sets off his fireworks. They both race on New Year's Day.

_Thank the lord there are only two._ Mycroft thought to himself as Sherlock lit a Roman candle. He could barely keep his eyes open — he never stayed up this late. And he had to race tomorrow!

Sherlock had wanted to wait for Greg to return to the hotel. But Mycroft had not heard from his paramour. 

“Well… text him.” Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft sighed. “No.” If Greg was still speaking with Fleur, he was loath to disturb them — he knew that Greg had hoped that they could be friends… or at least friendly. Mycroft had thought the impulse was unlikely to be well-received — people who have been dumped don’t want to be _friends_ with the one who has hurt them. Mycroft understood it — salvaging something from the relationship would assuage Greg’s guilt. He wanted to give him the space to accomplish it. After all, Mycroft was not insecure. He had nothing to fear from Fleur. If he did, he never would have risked losing _everything_ for Greg Lestrade.

“Midnight is only twenty minutes away.” He told his brother. “We’ll do it ourselves.”

Sherlock snorted his disgust, but dropped the subject. He was too excited about setting off the Roman candles to fret over details.

Finding a place to light the fireworks was a difficulty. The hotel didn’t have a garden and the car park was full of cars filled with pesky petrol. Sherlock’s pout was becoming epic — Mycroft feared the explosion. He hastily opened Google maps on his phone and found a small park a ten-minute walk from the hotel. Despite the rather large group of teenagers drinking there, they found a place to mount the candles that Mycroft felt was safe enough. 

He made certain that his brother did not aim the fireworks at anyone — especially himself! Mycroft turned down the offers of beer from the friendly locals on behalf of Sherlock, braving the return of the pout, and distracted him with the box of matches he’d remembered to bring from Garin House.

The Roman Candles shot a satisfying amount of coloured, fiery sparks into the air, spitting and sizzling and threatening to ignite the dead leaves and dry grass. The drunken teens whooped and cheered and a distant church bell tolled midnight.

The walk back to the hotel was anticlimactic.

Mycroft checked his phone before he dropped off. No message yet from Greg.

He dreamed of Greg’s arms around him, of that incredible, stunning, shocking feeling of being adored.

\---

Sven Nys was a big deal in cyclocross. In the 2004-2005 season he won _everything_ — the World Cup Series, the Superprestige series, the DVV Trofee series, the Belgium championship and the World Championship. He almost repeated that feat in 2005-2006, winning everything but the World Championship — only missing out due to an unfortunate fall. He continued to be a dominant presence in cyclocross for another decade, but did not win another World Championship until 2013. 

After retiring in 2016, Nys began running his own cyclocross team — several of the black-clad Lions were competitive in both the men’s and women’s elite ranks, notably young Van Anrooij. More importantly, Nys built a permanent cyclocross park for riders and racers to improve their skills all year long. This park was the site of the DVV race on New Year’s Day.

The Holmes bus drove directly to the park that morning and Mycroft and Sherlock — accompanied by Uncle Rudy — were on the course before the first races, whilst ghostly mist still rose from the ground and the sun attempted to penetrate the thick grey clouds. 

Mycroft had ridden any number of times in Sven Nys’ park, but he was always changing it — especially for an international race like this. He noted the number of hills and the long, awkward, off-camber — the course suited his strengths. It was exciting. Mycroft was looking forward to the race.

They did not see Greg.

Mycroft caught sight of Boy Hermans with another of his racers, but no sign of Greg. He had not texted yet either. All sorts of possibilities began to scratch at the back of his mind — had there been a car accident, illness, a misadventure of some sort? He told himself he was being ridiculous. It was still early. It was not yet time to worry.

He considered — and rejected — reaching out. Mycroft was secure in the knowledge that Greg loved him —their liaison the day before was still fresh in his mind. It had been… wonderful, intense… _life-changing_. Mycroft had never expected to inspire such devotion! He had devoted himself completely to Greg in return. Love was amazing! He had never felt so content.

Mycroft was confident that Greg would arrive at the race with ample time to prepare, and if there was no chance to speak beforehand, they would talk afterwards.

Watching Sherlock race was diverting. The boy was improving — he was visibly stronger than he’d been at the beginning of the season. He had no trouble keeping up with the leaders now and could easily identify the other racers’ weaknesses — he even had the strength and stamina to begin to take advantage of his observations. Sherlock finished second overall — first in his age group — almost unheard of for a racer of his tender years.

His dark curls whipped about his head as he stood on the podium. Sherlock had recently shot up several inches and was so skinny — his knobby knees gave him the mien of a nervous colt. Mycroft was fiercely proud.

“Where is he? Did he see?” Sherlock asked as soon as he stepped off the podium.

“I assume you mean Lestrade. I have not seen him.” Mycroft told him. “You will have to tell him all about it.”

Sherlock nodded, placated at the thought of regaling the World Champion with a blow-by-blow of his race. But he gazed curiously at Mycroft. “Why don’t you know where he is.”

“Why would I know that?” Mycroft asked him.

“Because you’re —”

Mycroft cut his brother off. “It’s not my job to keep track of him.”

“Hm.” Sherlock’s sharp eyes raked over him again, but he said nothing else.

Walking back to the bus with his brother, Mycroft checked his phone again. As he collected his savoury rice cakes and fruit, he firmly shoved away the tendrils of anxiety. Greg was a grown up. He was responsible and strong. They had spoken not twelve hours before, there was absolutely no reason to worry.

If his eyes continually scanned the crowd as he ate lunch with Marcel Maier and three of Vanthourenhout’s orange men, well, that was simply curiosity.

\---

This was the first DVV race in which Greg would be in the first row. Mycroft, the leader of the series, was called up first, Vanthourenhout second, and on and on. Greg was called ninth… but he didn’t roll up beside Mycroft. He craned his neck, searching the mass of racers for the white jersey with the rainbow rings, for the silver helmet and warm, brown eyes… to no avail. The race officials marked Greg DNS — Did Not Start.

Distracted, Mycroft flubbed the sprint, getting caught in the scrum of riders, nowhere near the front of the race. He could practically feel Mummy’s eyes boring into him, anticipate her questions and worry. It made his stomach feel sour.

Twenty-five metres from the start line, the course pitched up and up and up — up a long, steep road. Stuck in the pack, Mycroft found himself blocked by slower riders. He climbed his way through best he could. (The road was relatively wide, at least.) By the time he crested, Mycroft had improved his position somewhat. But not nearly enough — he caught sight of the front of the race as it curved away into the trees. 

Mycroft threw himself down the descent, passing two more riders on the way, and tore into the trees. His head was in the game now — time enough for other considerations afterwards.

In the woods, the course was too narrow to pass, and Mycroft was forced to dismount at the first short, sharp ascent. He ran up the path next to one of Sven Nys’ Lions, other racers packed tightly around him. At the top, he leapt upon his bike and nosed ahead of the Lion — he grudgingly allowed Mycroft in front of him, unwilling to fight for position. Mycroft sneered internally.

The second short ascent wove between several trees and though it was completely rideable, in the crush of the pack, everyone behind the fifth rider was obliged to jump off and run up single file. Mycroft dismounted and ascended in turn.

The course swerved between trees and then plunged over an edge and down a steep hill, the course turning ninety degrees left halfway to avoid a stand of trees — it was tricky, navigating the fast descent into the corner at speed. More than one rider had already come a’cropper — one was stuck in the orange netting that lined the course and another sat on the ground, shaking his head, his bike nowhere to be seen. Mycroft neatly avoided them, but heard the squeal of brakes and shouts behind him as less skilful racers crashed in the attempt.

Flying out of the trees, Mycroft took the opportunity of a broader path to improve his position, passing four riders before reaching the sand pit. It was wide and not as deep as it might be. Though the racers ahead of him were running, Mycroft chose to ride, taking a different line around the runners. His wheels flailed and he almost had to dismount, but keeping his hands loose on the bars and shifting his weight with the bike, he kept it upright and rode out of the sand ahead of another rider.

The course curved around the outside of the park — a long, fast section — then began climbing steadily. Mycroft caught another glimpse of the front of the race — several gaps had opened up between him and the leaders. He would need to pass at least ten more racers and then bridge up to the next group, work his way past them, and bridge again. 

This ascent was more gradual, but it wore on the legs of Mycroft’s competitors. He was able to keep his pace steady and swift and shoot past rider after rider. The lion, he noted, was still on his wheel, using him to improve his own position in the race. It was a smart tactic, more than making up for having ceded the space to Mycroft earlier. Internally, he apologised for sneering at the man.

He reached the top in the front of his group and began the task of bridging to the riders just disappearing around a bend fifteen metres ahead. 

Chasing them, Mycroft navigated his way carefully across the hillside. The off-camber sector was steep, with rideable lines near the top and the bottom of the allowed space. He chose the top path — with no one directly ahead, he was confident he could ride it. Halfway, he heard a yelp and the sound of carbon impacting earth and saw a racer slide down to the lower line, dragging his bike with him. Mycroft did not wait to see him jump up and run. He navigated the tricky 180-degree corner, swooping from the top to the bottom of the course, his arm skimming the orange plastic netting. He rode back across the side of the hill, unclipping one foot and extending it to stay balanced on the precipitous path. 

Another short power straight took him to the barriers. He bunny hopped his bike over them easily and then laid down some power in the attempt to catch the next group as they passed the bike pit. The course returned to the woods and another series of short, sharp ascents and descents — Mycroft rode them perfectly, hopped a fallen log painted fluorescent orange, and caught the back wheel of the last rider in the group ahead of him. 

He rested briefly, sitting on as they circled back around to the start/finish.

Mycroft ignored the reshuffling of the group, some riders slowing and others taking over the lead, as they crossed the start/finish line. He sat in, conserving his strength until they started up the long, paved climb again. Without standing on his pedals, he spun up and passed all the labouring riders in this group. Cresting in first place, he caught a good look at the race ahead of him — there was a significantly larger gap between himself and the front five racers. Three wore orange — Vanthourenhout and two of his teammates.

Though he was now able to ride all the short, steep hills, instead of running, it took Mycroft the entire lap to cross the distance — only to discover he’d latched onto a spent orange man who was drifting backwards. He sprinted around the racer and covered the last four metres, and found himself on John Watson’s wheel.

Mycroft sat in for three laps, resisting the temptation to lay on and pass the others on the up-hills. Wurst did yeoman’s work on the front as the rest bided their time. 

He found himself looking for the World Champion’s rainbow jersey, peeking around other racers and under his arm behind him, only to remember that Greg had not started. As far as Mycroft knew, Greg had not come to the race at all.

He put it from his mind, compartmentalising ruthlessly.

On the beginning of the sixth lap, Watson attacked up the long, paved hill. His small stature made him a born climber — with less weight to haul up, he could use his power for speed. Mycroft — also a natural climber, skinny where Watson was short — was hard-pressed to match him. 

The two of them reached the top several seconds before the rest — Wurst had faded, leaving only Vanthourenhout and Van Anrooij to chase. They caught up easily as they swooped into the trees, and the four of them rode up and down the short, steep ascents, and wove through the trees like birds in a flock — smooth and perfectly measured.

Until they reached the descent with the tight left, Vanthourenhout, on the front, took it more slowly than Mycroft liked and he cut hard to the inside of the corner with effortless skill and flew past. He held the lead until the sandpit — where he made a stupid mistake and found himself running through the sand for the first time. He exited it behind Vanthourenhout and was content to follow him on the long path around the park and onto the gradual incline.

Towards the top, Mycroft exerted himself to pass — he wanted to ride first into the off-camber, he wanted to choose his own line unhindered. He rode it well until he swooped through the 180 and Van Anrooij — who’d taken the lower line in an attempt to get ahead — lost control and rode into him, knocking Mycroft into the netting. With one foot on the ground, Mycroft wrenched his bike from the tangle and pushed off, once, twice, three times, chasing Vanthourenhout and Watson who had avoided the pile-up.

As he sprinted in pursuit, he attempted to shift gear — and discovered that he could not. Mycroft took a look under his arm at this drivetrain. The derailleur was bent. Mycroft cursed aloud.

Approaching the barriers, Mycroft tagged back onto Vanthourenhout. He hopped the barriers, praying his bike stayed in one piece, then gunned it into the bike pit. Fluidly he dismounted and jumped onto the fresh bike that Father held out, losing almost no speed. Still, he had a bike length to make up as he left the pit.

He stuck to Vanthourenhout’s wheel through the woods, up and down the little hills, over the bright orange log, and around to the start/finish.

The three of them rode across the line, looking at each other. It was the penultimate lap — Mycroft had burned a lot of matches early in the race, and was hoping that this lap would be relatively staid. But Watson had other ambitions, again sprinting up the punishing hill. Mycroft’s legs screamed as he matched the smaller rider — it was tempting to give in, to let Watson go… but the top wasn’t _that_ far… and Mycroft knew well how to suffer… he flogged himself up in Watson’s wake.

At the crest, they’d once again distanced Vanthourenhout. Watson shot Mycroft a disgusted look — clearly, he’d hoped to drop both of them. Mycroft took the front into the trees, pedalling smoothly — hoping to convince Watson the race uphill had not hurt him at all.

Up and down, up and down, around and around and over the edge and swooping left, out of the woods and into the sand, then around and around and the long, steady uphill. Mycroft ceded the front to Watson and stifled a groan as he immediately upped the pace. Mycroft grimly stuck with him. 

At this point, Mycroft wasn’t certain he could finish this race ahead of the smaller man.

Watson lead them onto the off-camber. Halfway across, Watson bobbled and Mycroft was forced to brake — it took him off the upper line and he plunged down to the lower line, only just keeping his bike upright. He dismounted and ran the 180 — it was impossible to ride from the lower line — and leapt back upon his bike, outer leg unclipped and extended for balance on the treacherous hillside.

It wasn’t until he reached the barriers that Mycroft realised he’d unshipped Watson — something must have happened to him on the off-camber! Bypassing the pit, Mycroft found a hidden reserve of strength and sped into the woods. He liked this part of the course — it had a rhythm, up-down, up-down, up-down, up-down, around, around, over the orange log, around, around and onto the pavement.

Mycroft heard the bell as he crossed the start/finish line. He looked over his shoulder — Watson and Vanthourenhout were together, three bike lengths behind!

This time up the long, steep hill, Mycroft rode faster than he had on any other lap. The lactic acid flooded his quads and _ached_ as he spun the pedals madly, but his breathing was controlled and he knew he was going to have a strong last lap. He might be caught and passed, but not because Mycroft wasn’t giving everything he had. 

He snuck a glance backwards as he crested — Watson had again outdistanced Vanthourenhout, but he looked laboured as he climbed, still three or more bike lengths behind! Mycroft swooped down the hill and pedalled hard around the sweeping corner, charging into the woods. The noise was dampened in the trees — the roaring of the crowds, the tinny voice of the announcer over the sound system, the cowbells and (horribly) the vuvuzelas, receded and the forest seemed peaceful. 

A sort of zen descended in Mycroft’s mind. He barely had to think about the course, his body simply flowed. Up and down, up and down, up and over, downhill fast and the hard left. Out of the woods and into the sandpit. In the sand he lapped a rider who moved to the edge of the course to allow him to pass. He focussed on keeping his speed high as he rode the long path around the park, pain seeping through the meditative calm. 

The uphill, gradual as it was, _hurt_. But it was the _last_ part of the course that would tax his body this way — the rest was mostly skill. If he could get to the top before Watson…

His breath roared in his ears. People were leaning over the vinyl barriers, waving their arms and shouting at the top of their lungs. Someone’s beer splashed over his arm and the hoppy bitter smell flooded his nose. Mycroft almost gagged but suppressed the reflex, blowing a panting breath out between clenched teeth instead.

He took the upper line on the off-camber. It had only gotten more precarious as the race wore on, but Mycroft rode it perfectly and swooped down through the 180, brushing the course barrier with his whole arm. As he doubled back across the hill, he saw Watson attempting the upper line and then Vanthourenhout. Mycroft automatically counted the seconds between them — four. With no more climbs, either one could take second place. Or first if Mycroft made a mistake.

Over the barriers, speeding through the power straight by the bike pit, curving back into the forest. Abruptly, Mycroft’s strength failed. He rode the trail, up-down, up-down, but he felt weak. Slow. Up-down, up-down, around, around — Watson and Vanthourenhout had to be catching up! Over the orange log, around, around — he could hear them!

As he burst onto the finishing straight, the fans were shouting, screaming and pointing. Mycroft didn’t look — he knew they were there. He stood up on his pedals and sprinted — or _sprinted_ , an awkward, exhausted sprint, squeezing every last joule of power from his legs. The finish line was so far away! So far! Why wasn’t he getting closer?! A metre from the line, Mycroft gave in, head dropping, shoulders sagging, coasting, his legs completely done it. 

Glitter drifted down, sticking to his sweaty skin.

Someone grabbed his bike. Arms wrapped around his torso and supported him as he fell. Mycroft drooped, unable to stand on his own. Another strong body inserted itself under his other arm and he was walked into the warming tent and deposited in a chair. Someone shoved an open gel into his hand. 

“Eat it.” Uncle Rudy’s voice. “Come on, now.” 

Mycroft lifted the gel to his lips and squirted the pudding-like substance into his mouth. Vanilla. He swallowed it and found a recovery drink in his hand. He put the straw to his lips and sucked — he could taste the protein powder and banana under the light citrus flavour.

The gel worked quickly. Soon, Mycroft could keep his eyes open, his head up. He could sit upright in his chair and peer around the tent. He frowned, wondering where Greg had got to — he had finished on the podium in every race but the one he’d crashed out. Surely, he should be here. 

It took a ridiculously long time for Mycroft to remember that Greg had not come today. The disappointment and confusion was acute. 

When Anthea handed Mycroft his phone, he checked his texts — nothing. Without caring who might see, he immediately composed a text.

| to Greg Lestrade | 4:13 pm  
 _Is everything ok? You missed the race._

For the rest of the afternoon — through the interviews, changing for the podium, the podium ceremony, (Watson was full of puppyish excitement at being on the elite stage for the first time. He shook up his bottle of champagne and sprayed it vigorously at Mycroft and Thijs Vanthourenhout.) lifting his arms and posing with the other two men for photo, changing again into street clothes not sticky with sparkling wine, going through doping control, walking back to the bus — Mycroft kept the phone in his hand, waiting for its vibration to alert him to a reply. 

It was silent.

As the Holmes’ bus headed back to Schoten, Mycroft contemplated his phone. He desperately wanted to text again — or to call. But he held himself back. Calling where Mummy could hear was not a good idea. If Greg were not in his barn at Garin House, Mycroft would call. 

In the mean-time he attempted to pay attention to Uncle Rudy as he pulled apart the race.

\---

The lights were on in the barn — Mycroft could see the glow through the slats of the shutters — and relief flooded through his body. He had not realised how very worried he had become, how tense and anxious. But if the lights were on, Greg was home. He suppressed his smile, hiding his happiness from his family.

He helped unload the gear until Anthea intervened. “Go knock on his door.” She murmured. “Find out why he didn’t race today.”

“But…” Mycroft could not show his eagerness to Mummy. 

“Leave it to me.” Anthea said, squeezing his hand. She left him, picking up the cooler to carry into the house. As she passed, she uttered a critical comment about Sherlock’s shoulder alignment — deftly luring his mother and protesting brother into Garin House after her. Mycroft felt impossibly grateful to his soigneur. 

In seconds, he was at Greg’s door, knocking softly and trying the knob. The door was unlocked. Mycroft pushed it open and slipped inside closing and locking it securely behind him. He looked around at the disarray in the guest house, wondering at it. 

Greg stepped out of the big closet. “Mycroft...” He said.

Their eyes met… 

It was Greg’s face, Greg’s beloved face… but it was… wrong…

All the excitement and happiness at seeing his lover withered. It was all there for Mycroft to see, writ large on Greg’s face — he was leaving Mycroft. Their affair was over.

For the space of a millisecond, Mycroft wanted to beg, to plead with Greg to change his mind. He _knew_ Greg loved him! Only yesterday they had acknowledged it, sealed it, bathed in its beauty...

But no! Greg had betrayed him. There was no going back — no way to erase this ugly blight on their love.

With a choked off sob, Mycroft turned back to the door and clawed at the latch. He _needed_ to leave, needed to escape from the stifling barn, leave his erstwhile lover’s presence. He had to get away from the pain, the incredible, searing devastation…

Greg was fast, he was across the room and had hold of Mycroft’s arm before his fingers managed the lock.

“Don’t.” Mycroft begged. “Let me go.”

“Mycroft, please…” Greg’s arms encircled him and he buried his face in Mycroft’s shoulder. “Please…”

“Let me go.” Mycroft said again. Greg’s arms felt so good! He hated himself for leaning into them.

“Please let me explain.”

“There’s no need.” The words felt like ground glass in his throat. “It’s perfectly obvious.”

“No… love…”

“Don’t say that!” Mycroft hissed. “You don’t mean it.”

“I do! I love you, My!”

Mycroft swore. Greg’s words cut deeply — all the more because he wanted to believe them so badly! But he knew better. He knew what he’d seen on Greg’s face. In Greg’s eyes.

If nothing else, Mummy had given him confidence in his deductions.

“You don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand!?” Anger overtook Mycroft and it was _better_ — better than the horrible nauseating misery… 

It was withdrawal. Mycroft tried to retreat into reason, to wall off a small part of himself that was purely rational, separate from the sentiment raging all around. He was experiencing withdrawal — nothing more complicated than that. The moment he’d comprehended that Greg was done with him, his brain had slammed off the supply of oxytocin, cutting him off from the high.

Greg kissed him, his face wet with tears.

The abrupt increase in testosterone and adrenaline was a welcome balm. Anger! It had never been so necessary! Mycroft shoved Greg away. “It’s very clear that you are packing, that you are moving!” He spat. “Back in with Fleur, I presume. You’ve chosen her. Yes, you’re regretful, but what is that to me?! Nothing. It may make you feel better about how you…” 

_Used me_. 

He couldn’t say it. A sharp blade of agony cut through his fury. Mycroft returned to the door, to the lock. Escape was paramount.

“Mycroft…”

“Stop talking. If you ever cared about me, for god’s sake stop talking!”

“She’s pregnant.”

Mycroft froze, the words penetrating slowly, their import taking time to bloom in his mind. For a moment, everything was still and silent. Then Mycroft closed his eyes tightly and leaned his forehead against the door. He wanted to smash his head into the thick wood over and over and over…

“I got her pregnant… before we broke up. And I can’t… please understand, Mycroft, I can’t abandon her. I have to take responsibility. I have to be there for her and… and our child.” Greg’s voice broke. “It’s killing me — I love _you_. But I have to step up. I have to set my feelings aside and step up.”

Of course he did. Greg Lestrade could do no less. He wasn’t like everyone else, he was noble and good. Mycroft understood — Greg could not change who he was and Mycroft could not wish that he were different… 

The anger drained, leaving him grey and worn. The pain returned, a shattering hurricane. Understanding didn’t stop it. It didn’t reduce his suffering one iota. It howled! It took his breath away.

Greg’s hand touched his shoulder, squeezed. It felt as if Greg had shoved a knife into his guts and twisted it. Mycroft bled and bled.

It did not matter that Greg was leaving him for virtuous reasons.

“I would give anything, Mycroft, _anything_ for it not to be true.” Greg’s voice was husky with pain. “But it is. She’s five months… she showed me the sonogram… it… it’s a boy.”

“Yes.” Mycroft forced the word from his lips. “I understand.” It sounded as wooden as the door.

“Mycroft… if you ever need _anything_ …”

“No.” _Please don’t say it_!

“If you ever need anything at all, I’ll be there, My. Anything…” 

_God, please no!_ Mycroft wished with his entire being. _Don’t say it... don’t! Don’t do this to me! Not this!_

“I… I hope we can be friends…”

“Don’t say anything more.” Mycroft commanded, praying Greg would comply, that he wouldn’t make this more awful. “I understand… I have to go.” His fingers did not betray him now, he turned the bolt easily and opened the door. The cold of the night gripped him. 

“Mycroft…” Greg’s grief made his own bitterer, harder to bear.

He walked away.

Not into Garin House — Mycroft could not face his family. He could not stand to talk and eat and lie in his bed whilst his heart shattered and bled. Later he would have to... but now... he could not. 

Mycroft made his way down the drive to the road. He turned his back on the village lights — they taunted him with their merry twinkling. 

He ran.

Mycroft ran in the dark, trying to exhaust himself, trying to keep the tide of emotion at bay. He sprinted… outrunning the nightmare... if he could just stay ahead of it... he wouldn’t have to feel... wouldn’t have to know... but he could not run fast enough. 

He was caught.

Bent over, gasping, Mycroft vomited, expelling liquid and bile, everything he’d consumed when he had been loved and happy. Stomach acid burned his throat, tasted foul in his mouth. He spat, knowing it was futile. The taste would linger.

Mycroft turned from the road into the trees. They were leafless, skeletal, yet it was dark as pitch. The faint glow of starlight that shone on the road did not penetrate into this wood. Mycroft wandered, choking on anguish, his abused throat throbbing. He wanted to lose himself here. Lose the part of himself that had trusted. Lose the miserable husk of agonising sentiment that encased him... emerge from this nightmarish cocoon...

The trees were talking, Shush-shushing in the wind. He leaned against the trunk of one that reached high above him — wrapped his arms around it, shed tears on its rough bark and shouted incoherent agony into the air. 

As if in answer, the wind blew harder and it began to rain. It was bitterly cold. It wet his hair and chilled his skin, penetrated his clothing and making him numb. 

Numb... numb was... good...

The wind, the trees, the rain, the dark and the cold… It felt like a balm. 

Mycroft pulled the numbness around him like a cloak, sheltering in the blessed emptiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s happened — Something worse than Mummy discovering them. It’s all the more terrible that Greg's trying to be honorable, that Mycroft _understands_ , when he rips Mycroft's heart out...
> 
> Thanks for reading! And for your comments! More and more and more to come!


	15. BRUSSEL'S UNIVERSITY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is depressed, distraught, despairing...

Mycroft smiled at the feel of breath on his neck, warm and humid... lips, teeth, a rumbling hum... he was so happy! He could smell Greg, smell sex, feel the stretch, the wetness between his thighs. Greg was so gentle with him… so loving… his body was warm and solid, pressed against Mycroft’s own… he _wanted_...

Drifting awake slowly… feeling adored and safe… joyous… _aroused_... skin hot, cock achingly hard... reaching for Greg, Mycroft opened his eyes...

He was in his own room… alone… 

Mycroft _remembered_ and the world shattered anew. It hurt so much! He could barely breathe. The pain was suffocating, smothering. He wanted to die.

The dream had been so vivid... so real. Only two days ago, it _had_ been real. Mycroft curled in on himself, nausea convulsing through his thin frame. He drew the duvet up tightly, trying to hide from the knowledge of what he had lost.

\----

Mycroft was sick. He’d caught a chill walking in the cold, January rain — it lowered his defences enough that a virus took root. His lungs hurt when he breathed, his throat was sore and his sinuses might as well have been full of cement, so stoppered was that airway.

It was a common cold, he knew, nothing more. But beyond the virus, was the despair. It made _everything_ hurt. Everything! Mycroft’s bones ached, his head pounded, his skin was sore, the movement of the blood in his veins throbbed painfully. He had no appetite and what he forced himself to eat tasted like cardboard. He was nauseated constantly. He kept little of the food down.

Being around people was intolerable. His misery was so acute, Mycroft could barely motivate himself to leave his bed.

Mummy decided that he had flu.

Mummy herself made chicken broth — sans noodles, of course, Mycroft’s nutritional plan must still be followed — and would have fed it to Mycroft with her own hands if he’d allowed it. As it was, she sat by his bed as he managed a few spoonfuls.

“What were you thinking, going out in the pouring rain?” Mummy wanted to know. She’d asked him over and over, her sharp eyes raking over him, searching for answers. 

It was a fair question — Mycroft wasn’t prone to running off after dark, wet or dry.

“It wasn’t raining when I went out.” He told her, closing his eyes and pulling the duvet more tightly around his shoulders. He was in bed and wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

“I don’t understand what you were doing out at all. You know how important recovery is after a race.”

“Yes, Mummy. I just… I just needed a walk.”

“You were clowning around with Lestrade, weren’t you? I thought the both of you had more sense.”

God, it hurt to hear his name. “I’m tired now…” He set aside the bowl and balled himself into a foetal position under the duvet.

“Try and get some sleep, Chouchou.” She brushed the auburn curls back from his forehead. 

Mummy had not used an endearment for Mycroft since he was three… that she did now brought fresh tears to his eyes. He blinked them back, thinking how very much he regretted betraying her, breaking his promise… at least she didn’t know.

Now she would never have to know.

\---

Regardless of how terrible Mycroft felt, regardless of his runny nose and husky cough, of the depression pressing on his chest like heavy stones, on Friday, he had to rouse himself out of bed, bathe and dress and drive to Antwerp for his meeting with Sphere.

It had gone well — Mycroft’s cold excused his lack of animation. And despite his listlessness, he found himself impressed by Sphere’s organisation, by their resources. They had discussed what road races they’d want Mycroft to race. He’d felt excitement flaring at the thought.

He still had racing. Greg had not taken that from him.

Mummy was keen for Mycroft to sign with them. And he did not want the hassle of arguing with her. Sphere was a good team and as long as he was racing, the name on his jersey barely mattered. He was sorely tempted to simply sign the contract and have it over with. Then he could go back to bed.

“I want to see the other offers.” Mycroft croaked as they drove back to Garin House.

“Mycroft…”

“I don’t have the energy to fight about it, Mummy. I want to see the other offers before I sign anything.” He told her, then closed his eyes and rested his head and tried to sleep.

She scoffed and said nothing for almost thirty seconds. “Very well.” She conceded at length. 

Mycroft, desperate for the oblivion of slumber, did not answer.

Sometimes Greg came to him in his sleep.

\---

Brussels University was a DVV Trofee race that took place, as its name suggested, on the campus of Brussels University. This was only the second time that a race had been held there — it had been a great success the year before and like then, the crowds were thick and enthusiastic.

Mycroft had never considered skipping the race. Not only did he lead the DVV series, racing was what he had now. Racing would heal him. Racing and Mummy and Sherlock and Uncle Rudy’s coaching and Father’s kind words, Anthea and Alun and Anderson… the familiarity of it all was comforting.

His cold had nearly run its course, but the dull, leaden feeling, the exhaustion, and disinterest in everyone and everything lingered. Worse, food continued to have no appeal — Mycroft had stopped vomiting everything he put in his stomach, but mostly as he barely ate. It still tasted like cardboard and made him gag. 

Anthea had made his rice porridge with extra protein and carbohydrates — soy powder, dried fruits and maple syrup. Because he could keep it down, Mycroft had eaten little else for three days. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror as he dressed. He had been too thin before, now he’d lost the glow of health. He looked like he’d been on a hunger strike, all sallow parchment skin stretched over jutting bones.

Mycroft wasn’t certain how well he could race today. He hadn’t fuelled his body appropriately, he hadn’t been on his bike for more than an hour in four days, he was sick and feeling low… but the fire to race, to _win_ , still burned in his heart. He _wanted_ to race.

He did not want to see Greg.

Honestly, Mycroft did not want to see anyone. Instead of venturing into the riders’ corral to socialise and eat, Mycroft rested on the bus until it was time to warm up.

Unsurprisingly, his legs were wooden in his warm-up. His lungs hurt and he could not breathe through his nose. But there was nothing for it. Mycroft forced two gels down his throat, put two more in his jersey pocket and made his way to the line.

There the moment he’d dreaded came. Greg. He stood across from Mycroft, looking magnificent in his rainbow jersey — strong and handsome and completely, infinitely desirable.

Mycroft looked away.

The pain was suffocating.

It was hard, so hard, to still love him. How could Mycroft still love someone who had hurt him as much as Greg had? How could he still want him with every fibre of his being? 

He was called up first. Keeping his eyes firmly on the pavement, he chose a centre-left position on the starting line — the first corner was a right-hander and Mycroft wanted the outside line. He listened to the announcer calling Vanthourenhout, Wurst, Van Anrooij, Watson… 

Mycroft gave his jacket to Sherlock as they called Lestrade. Missing the race on New Year’s Day had shuffled him down a spot — Mycroft didn’t know if that put him back in the second row or not. He gritted his teeth and did not look to see. 

The commentators talked loudly about Mycroft’s lack of animation, about how he’d been sick and lacked his usual spirit. Anger bloomed and he embraced it.

He cleared his nostrils one last time. Mycroft was determined to keep first place in the DVV series — any sign of weakness and Vanthourenhout and his orange men would take advantage. He needed to be strong from start to finish.

The lights turned green and Mycroft sprinted almost blindly down the road. Adrenaline flooded his system and he forgot completely about his stuffy nose and tender lungs. He forgot the weariness and the fug and the utter _disinterest_ in everything. He forgot his misery and he _raced_! 

Mycroft swung into the first corner in sixth place — acceptable. 

Urban races like this one used what was at hand — there were no cornfields here, no lakes, no muddy fields. But there were stairs. The right-hand corner took the pack directly to the foot of a long flight of concrete stairs — forty-three steps, he’d counted earlier. Mycroft was off his machine and charging up the steps, holding his bike on his shoulder — angling it slightly to make it more difficult for the racers behind to pass him. At the top, he leapt on his bike for an off-camber across the hillside to a downhill 180 — the off-camber course zig-zagged down the hill they’d just run up. He had to dismount for the 180 and then ran back across the hillside to the second 180 — it was too steep to ride the corners and it was faster to run between them than futz around with mounting and dismounting — leapt back on his bike and rode the last section down and around past the bike pit.

The course doubled back and took them to another stairwell, this one only a dozen steps, and all the riders swung their legs over their saddles and coasted to the steps on one pedal, stepped off onto the first step, hoisting their bikes up as they ran, cleats clack-clacking on the concrete. Again, at the top, the course took them right back down — but this descent was shorter and steeper, not unlike a plunge off a cliff. Mycroft was fifth down the hill.

A power section came next — a long, wide straight that crossed half a dozen sidewalks. Riders reshuffled, trying to improve their positions. Mycroft did not want to get shuffled back, so when a racer came by him moving fast, he darted behind him and followed the wheel forward. It wasn’t until they’d slotted into second and third, that Mycroft realised it was Greg.

He was so fucking beautiful. His white and rainbow jersey stretched over his muscular back and shoulders, tapering to the ‘V’ of his hips… Oh God… the pain! For a moment, the world went grey and Mycroft’s legs gave out and pain crashed through him. _He could not do this_!

Then the anger, an absolute, incandescent _fury_ took over, as inexorable as the tide, displacing Mycroft’s misery entirely. Greg Lestrade had taken his heart and carelessly trod upon it, but he _would not take racing away from Mycroft_! With a cry, Mycroft stood up on his pedals and sprinted around Greg and the orange man on the front and led the race to the base of the hill. 

The hill was a road that led up to the main University building. It had four switchbacks and the gradient averaged 7.4 percent — a significant hill. As he blazed onto the pavement, Mycroft heard the sound of eighty bikes shifting up their cassettes from the hard gear they’d wanted for the power straight to the easier gear for the climb.

Mycroft too shifted, cognisant that whilst he _could_ ride up in the harder gear, he didn’t want to blow out his knees. He could race up just as fast — faster — by spinning an easier gear. The trick was to really _spin_ the pedals. He rotated his feet at a high cadence and shot up the hill to the first switchback.

He took the shorter, steeper, inside line on the corner, whipping around and up the next stretch. He caught sight of Watson, passing racer after racer almost effortlessly up the climb. He admired the man’s form — relaxed, with his weight back, his hands on the bars, but not gripping them, as if he were holding crackers between the bars and his palm and striving not to break them.

By the next switchback, Watson was behind him. Heavier riders were laying down big watts to cling to his wheel. This would be a race of attrition — the hill and the stairs wearing on rider’s legs lap after lap. The winner would need incredible stamina. That this hill took less out of Mycroft’s and Watson’s legs gave them a slight advantage.

At the top, the course took them over a curb — which everyone bunny-hopped with ease — back onto grass. They rode a 180 around a monument and then back onto pavement and through an archway, over another curb and then straight back down the grassy side of the long hill. Mycroft allowed Watson to lead down. Vanthourenhout and Lestrade overtook them on the descent — their weight gave them the advantage there, and Mycroft found himself in fourth place as they approached the sand. 

The sand ‘pit’ at Brussels University was made by carting in several tonnes of sand and pouring it down the side of a hill, twenty metres tall and forty metres wide. The course led up to the top of the hill, around a 180 and down to the bottom, around another 180 and back up to the top — all in thick sand. The very top of the hill was crowded with spectators pressing against the vinyl barriers, ringing cowbells, drinking beer, and shouting encouragement.

The first uphill was unrideable. Mycroft, along with all the other racers, dismounted and ran up the sand either carrying or pushing their bikes. The course was wide — if one were fast enough, it would be easy to pass other riders. But where Mycroft was, at the front of the race, they were all fast. They ran up single-file, each using the footprints of the racer before them. By the top, it was so steep that Mycroft had to put a hand down and veritably crawl to the top.

The downhill _could_ be ridden, but a number of riders in the earlier races had lost control in the shifting sand and crashed against the barriers — notably the woman in first place in the women’s elite race, allowing the racer in second place to overtake her. Controlling the bike down the deep sand descent was a crapshoot for even the best cyclocross riders in the world. 

Mycroft, on this lap, chose to run down the hill along with the riders around him. He slid most of the way, clinging to his bike, but ended up on his feet at the bottom. Without hesitating, he ran around the sandy corner and up the hill again, pushing his bike beside him. He could hear Watson’s breath puffing out in a controlled pant.

At the top, they left the sand, leapt upon their bikes and rode down again, this time on grass. The downhill led across a shallow valley and uphill again — the momentum carried Mycroft halfway up before his pedalling needed any force from his legs. Down again and around to the bottom of five steps — only _five_! It was tempting to try and ride them. Had they been shallower or fewer, Mycroft would have done. As it was, he gracefully dismounted once again, scuttled up the stairs and jumped back in the saddle, pedalling hard to keep up with the powerful riders in front of him.

They rode into a copse of trees — not enough to be counted as woods — where the path narrowed and they rode single-file on the circuitous path, a series of tight turns around trees and shrubs that spat the riders out onto pavement. The road curved and it wasn’t until they’d ridden around, that Mycroft saw that they were on the start/finish. 

It was a long run to the finish line. The climbs might favour Mycroft and Watson, but the bigger riders like Vanthourenhout and Lestrade would have an advantage here.

As they crossed the start/finish line Wurst and another orange man, and Van Anrooij took over the front. Mycroft slotted in behind Vanthourenhout, Watson and Lestrade behind him.

The rage was still there every time he allowed himself to notice Greg. As they rounded the corner and raced towards the first set of stairs, Mycroft forced the man out of his mind. He focussed instead on the clatter of his cleats on the concrete steps, the weight of the bike on his shoulder, the feel of his helmet’s chinstrap pulling on his jaw…

Vanthourenhout crashed in the first 180 — not dismounting quickly enough and racking himself on the thick post around which the course swung. Mycroft, directly behind him, was knocked off his feet, and slipped awkwardly into Vanthourenhout’s bike. It took precious seconds to wrench himself free and run around him. 

Pushing his bike with both hands, Mycroft chased Lestrade and Watson around the corner and back across the hill. Wurst and Van Anrooij had gotten a few seconds gap, and Vandevelde was dropping back to wait for Vanthourenhout. 

Marcel Maier must have caught up — he was abruptly in Mycroft’s field of vision, the German cutting in front of him as they ran the second 180. Leaping back on his bike, Mycroft was irritated — it had been a sketchy move. Unnecessarily so for the paltry advantage he gained. But as they rode around towards the bike pit, Marcel dropped back next to Mycroft and touched his hip, shrugging an apology. Mycroft’s irritation evaporated — Marcel had lost control on the corner, he hadn’t cut Mycroft off intentionally. He nodded acceptance and they were again racing, vying for Watson’s wheel. Mycroft took it. He ran the second, shorter, set of stairs and plunged down the hill into the power straight. 

Six riders were together now, with Vanthourenhout and Vandevelde behind trying to close the gap — which they accomplished as the group arrived at the base of the switchbacked hill.

Watson must have been feeling his oats — he attacked hard up the nine percent gradient on the first section (the steepest part of the climb, barring corners). Mycroft could have matched him, but it was only the second lap. He sat in the group and let the other racers chase. 

The diminutive racer reached the top at least seven seconds ahead of Mycroft’s group. They all hopped the curb, one after the other in quick succession, chased Watson around the monument and through the arch. On the downhill, they made up a little time, but arrived at the bottom of the sand hill when Watson was halfway up.

They ran up the sand, down the sand, around the deep sand at the bottom and up again, Watson dangling off the front. Then back on their bikes to ride down and then up and up, down, around to run the five steps and into the trees for the short stretch of singletrack. 

Back on the pavement, they caught Watson easily — before the start/finish line was even in sight. With a grin, he slotted in behind Mycroft. Abruptly he sped up again, pulling level with Mycroft and tapping his thigh. Watson pointed at Mycroft’s leg and he glanced down — blood. Quite a lot of it. He must have cut himself when he’d tangled with Vanthourenhout’s bike... now that he saw it, he could feel blood filling his shoe, his sock squishing. He shrugged at Watson. He’d have it looked at after the race.

Early in the third lap, they dropped Vandevelde. Maier was the next to go, falling off the pace as they climbed up the switchbacks. He dangled behind them for the rest of the lap, keeping them in sight but never catching up.

On the fourth lap, Mycroft had a bit of a go up the hill — not an attack, but raising the pace enough to hurt the bigger men, to wear out their legs. He heard Vanthourenhout groan behind him, grimly determined to keep up despite the pain. 

They were five together until running up the sand, Wurst slipped and fell, and though he was up quickly, he was soon distanced, trading pulls with Maier.

The rest of the lap was uneventful. On the pavement, riding towards the start/finish, Mycroft pulled a gel from his pocket, ripped it open with his teeth and squirted the pudding like substance into his mouth. The flavour was bright and fruity — not Mycroft’s favourite, but at least he could taste it. He swallowed it, ignoring the impulse to gag and spit. The carbs and the caffeine would, he hoped, keep his energy high despite how run-down he’d become.

Greg shot him a worried glance as Mycroft shoved the wrapper into his pocket. “You ok, My?” He asked, concern in his voice. “That’s a nasty cut.”

Mycroft bared his teeth in annoyance, refusing to look at the man. _He’s just another racer_ , he told himself. speeding up to sit between Van Anrooij and Watson.

Two more laps and Van Anrooij was dropped and Watson was beginning to struggle. Another and despite Watson’s climbing chops, he was distanced in the sand. By the time they were back on the pavement leading to the start/finish, Vanthourenhout, Lestrade and Mycroft were alone.

For an entire lap, they stayed together, until Vanthourenhout attacked on the curving tarmac leading towards the finish line. Mycroft let Lestrade chase him down, following his wheel. _Using him tactically_. He was just another racer.

 _He was just another racer_!

The ninth lap was the penultimate go-round. The three of them had been locked together for almost the entire race. They each had to be thinking about how to dislodge the other two. Mycroft’s best chance was on the climb. But they would have two-thirds of a lap to catch him up.

Before they crossed the start/finish line, Mycroft ate the other gel. 

Instead of riding aggressively, Mycroft sat behind the others for the entire lap. Lestrade launched a flyer on the power straight and Mycroft allowed Vanthourenhout to reel him back in, confident that if he couldn’t, Mycroft would catch him on the climb.

Lestrade crashed in the sand, on the downhill. Mycroft thought he was an idiot for attempting to ride it. He and Vanthourenhout worked together to take advantage of the gap, forcing Greg — forcing _Lestrade_ , Mycroft mentally corrected — to chase hard. He rejoined them as they crossed the start/finish, the bell ringing to make sure they knew it was the last lap.

Mycroft sat behind Vanthourenhout as Lestrade set a punishing pace on the front. Together they ran up the long flight of stairs, then coasted across the off-camber, dismounted and ran around the corner, ran across the hill and through the second corner, then leapt upon their bikes simultaneously. They all passed the bike pit — not one of them had taken a bike the entire race — and rode around to clatter up the second flight of stairs. They flew down the hill and into the power sector. Lestrade kept the pace too high for either Vanthourenhout or Mycroft to attack.

But the hill was Mycroft’s playground. As soon as the road pitched upward, Mycroft passed both the other racers and stormed up the climb, giving every-thing he had — 100 percent. For the first time in the race, he felt his lungs, felt the sickness in them.

By the first switchback, he had a bike length on the labouring riders. Mycroft redoubled his efforts. By the second switchback, he had phlegm hanging in viscous strands from his nose — and Lestrade and Vanthourenhout were ten seconds back! Mycroft shifted into a harder gear as the gradient lessened somewhat and focussed on the third switchback, getting to it as quickly as he was able. 

Thirteen seconds! Not enough… probably not enough. Mycroft was truly suffering now, his lungs feeling raw and stripped, snot and drool dangling from his face as he counted out his panting exhales. Every breath was excruciating, his sinuses aching, but his legs felt strong! He gained the top significantly ahead and stood on his pedals to build speed on the flat top. 

Over the curb, around the monument and through the archway — the others had crested and were chasing — down the long hill, hanging onto his handlebars, barely in control. He rode up the sand hill as far as he could then dismounted smoothly and hauled himself and his bike to the top. As he ran around to start down, he saw his competitors dismounting! Mycroft was maintaining his lead.

He ran down the hill, dragging his bike along and swung around the corner, his feet slipping in the sand, and began the slog back up the sandy hill pushing his bike with both hands. As he jumped back into the saddle, Vanthourenhout and Lestrade were at the bottom. 

Mycroft flew down the grassy hill and used the momentum to propel him up the other side, down again and around to the five stairs, dashed up them in three steps, leapt upon his bike and sprinted into the trees.

He didn’t know how much of a lead he still had. Mycroft wasn’t certain if Lestrade and Vanthourenhout would work together to catch him, or attack each other in a fight for second place, each loathe to help the other win. The latter was his best chance.

Emerging onto the pavement, Mycroft cursed it’s length — it was abnormally long for a ‘cross race, acting as a power straight. It was much too long to sprint the entire way, but Mycroft sprinted towards the curve, hoping to keep his gap wide enough that he wouldn’t need it at the end.

Abruptly, they were right behind him. Mycroft’s heart sank. He looked at them and they looked at him, at each other as they cruised around the corner. The finish line finally in sight, Mycroft waited for one of them to begin the sprint — his chances of beating them were slight, but he reminded himself that he had done before.

Vantourenhout made the first move, Lestrade on his wheel immediately, Mycroft struggling to keep up. Lestrade used the momentum to slingshot around Vanthourenhout and if Mycroft could hold his wheel, he’d get second… but he couldn’t. The World Champion was too fast. The glitter cannon shot its load as Lestrade crossed the line, hands in the air in victory. Vanthourenhout took a strong second and Mycroft coasted across for third.

Mycroft’s energy failed him completely — the adrenaline gone, his lungs and throat and sinuses reasserted themselves and he felt absolutely pitiful. 

And Greg! Greg was with Fleur. He’d lost him! It was over between them. Mycroft had lost him.

He stopped, bowed low over his bars, coughing, attempting to gather himself. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep. 

He didn’t want to go into the warming tent with Greg. Mycroft wanted to go home. He wanted his brother to ask his innumerable questions and natter on about his latest experiment. He wanted Mummy to coddle his cold and bring him books and challenge him to chess. He wanted Father to tell him what he’d done well in the race and for Uncle Rudy to break down the race bit by bit so they could discuss every move. He wanted Anthea to massage his legs and back…

He coughed, hacking helplessly, his offended lungs venting their complaints. 

It was a minute before Mycroft raised his head and looked around. 

He was alone. Neither Father nor Uncle Rudy was there. He hunted for them in the crowds surging around him. It was hard to discern one rain poncho-clad figure from another.

A coughing attack interrupted his search.

An official spread his arms, holding the cameras back from Mycroft. His chaperone lurked on his left, keeping an eye on him until he went through doping control. 

But there was no one else. No Father or Uncle Rudy, no Anthea or Sherlock… no Mummy… Mycroft climbed gingerly from his bike and another race official ushered him towards the warming tent. 

Awkwardly, Mycroft took his bike in with him. He didn’t know what to do with it — Father or Alun usually collected it at the line and took it away. Mycroft found a chair and sat down, a wave of weariness making him doubt he could stand up again. He unclipped his helmet and dropped it beside him. He coughed.

Greg was staring.

Mycroft cursed internally as the emotional pain flared and burned, dragging him lower and lower. He didn’t have the wherewithal for Greg! He prayed the man would not come over, would not speak to him. Mycroft could not do it now! He was too weak. _It hurt too much_. 

“Hey, My… where is everyone?” Greg’s voice was soft, his hand was warm on Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft glanced up and cringed. Greg’s regret was so obvious, and his... his love. Greg’s brown eyes were soft with love and care and pain and Mycroft could not _bear_ to see it. He could not bear to see what he’d lost — what they’d both lost.

“Go away…” The hacking cough interrupted him and he hid his face behind his arm. “I can’t talk to you.” He prayed no one could overhear, witness this humiliation.

“I just want to help.”

Mycroft searched for the anger, for the insulating rage… but he was so tired! “You can’t help me.” He managed. “Leave me alone.” He curled further in on himself as his coughing jag continued.

He heard Greg cursing under his breath. He walked away — part of Mycroft was immensely grateful. Another part wanted to grab the man and drag him back into his arms…

Where was Father? Where was Uncle Rudy? It occurred to him that some emergency must have befallen — had Sherlock been injured? Had Mummy?!

“Holmes? Mycroft?”

Bleakly, Mycroft raised his head. Boy Hermans stood before him.

“Where is your coach?” He asked. “Where are your people?”

Mycroft shrugged. He coughed, his lungs adamantly protesting the harsh treatment in the race. He noticed that he still had phlegm on his face and scrubbed his arm under his nose, transferring it to the sleeve of his jersey. Vaguely, he heard Hermans issuing orders. Mycroft rested his head in his hands.

“Mycroft…” Boy Hermans was crouching in front of him, offering a bottle of water and a handkerchief. Mycroft took them gratefully. 

“Thank you.” He said. He was very thirsty.

“They want you for interviews, but I think you need a doctor for your leg first.”

Mycroft nodded. He muffled another painful cough in the handkerchief.

“I have sent for the doctor. And I have sent someone to your bus to find your people.”

“You’re very kind. I apologise for putting you out.”

“Not at all.” Boy Hermans’ faint smile projected more worry than his calm competence suggested. Mycroft wished he weren’t so bloody exhausted — he was embarrassed to feel so helpless, so needy.

Mummy would have a fit when she learned how long Mycroft had been left alone — that a veritable stranger had had to intervene.

Mycroft was shivering by the time the doctor arrived. She was a middle-aged woman with her straw-coloured hair pulled back in a ponytail. She helped Mycroft take off his shoe and sock and squirted water on his calf, cleaning the blood and dirt. She tsked as his wound was revealed.

“It’s deep.” She said. “I’d like to give you a stitch or two.”

Mycroft agreed desultorily. “Here? Or…?”

“Not here. I need to clean it properly.” She took him by the elbow and helped him up. He stood, one foot bare, the other still locked into his cycling shoe.

There was a rustling murmur and then Boy Hermans was presenting Mycroft with a pair of slides. He recognised them — they were Greg’s. Greg had put his coach up to this.

And _there_ was the anger. Mycroft wanted to fling the sandals away — preferably at Greg Lestrade’s stupidly beautiful head!

The doctor squeezed his calf and pain shot up Mycroft’s leg. “Ow!” He was awake now! Alert and furious. And unwilling to make a scene. Setting his jaw, Mycroft unlocked his remaining shoe, pulled it off and slid Greg’s sandals on his feet. 

He was still holding onto his bike.

“Do not worry about your bicycle.” Boy Hermans said. “It will be here when you return. All of your things will.”

Mycroft met his eyes. “Thank you. I don’t know where… thank you.”

Herman’s nodded at him warmly. Greg stared from the far side of the tent. Mycroft refused to look at him. He followed the doctor out, his chaperone trailing behind.

She took him to an EMT truck and helped him climb inside. It was blessedly warm. Mycroft sat on the cot and extended his leg awkwardly to give her access. He was beginning to feel the wound in earnest. His chaperone pressed himself into a corner, trying to keep out of the way.

A half hour later, he limped from the truck, calf swathed in bandages. A race official was waiting for him. “We’ve been holding the podium ceremony, son.”

Mycroft nodded and followed the man. He shivered — it was cold and he didn’t have his jacket or long pants. Or shoes. He wanted to change his clothes. He wanted his recovery drink. He wanted Father to slip under his arm and lead him back to the warming tent. He wanted Uncle Rudy to help him out of his dirty kit into warmer gear. 

He wanted to stop bloody coughing!

In the warming tent, he found Alun with his bike. No, with _two_ of his bikes. That was very odd.

Mycroft was so obscenely happy to see the mechanic he mentally shuffled the oddness aside. Alun carried the familiar duffel with Mycroft’s gear — he wanted to hug the man. 

“Sorry, I got here as soon as I could. Great race, Mycroft! You looked strong out there — couldn’t even tell you were sick!”

“Alun!” Mycroft collapsed gratefully into the chair — the podium would wait a few more minutes. Alun wrapped his jacket around his shoulders and shoved his recovery drink into his hand and Mycroft felt grateful tears prick his eyes. “The warm up pants, yes… and my hat.” Alun helped him pull the clothes on over his racing kit and gave him trainers and warm socks. “Where is…?”

“Podium first, yeah? I’ll give you the lowdown after.”

Mycroft nodded acceptance and followed the official to the waiting area behind the stage. Vanthourenhout and Lestrade were there, clearly waiting for him. The painful cough would not leave him alone, and he arrived with his face bent into Boy Hermans’ handkerchief.

Someone touched his arm. “Everything ok, My?” _Greg_! The rush of love and joy flattened him.

Shrinking from his touch, Mycroft attempted to gather the shreds of his dignity around him. “Thank you.” He said, not meeting Greg’s eyes. “For loaning me your sandals. They’re back in the tent.”

“Yeah, of course… but how are you?”

“Don’t.” Mycroft hissed under his breath. “Please don’t.”

Greg’s face fell. “I just…”

“Don’t!” Mycroft couldn’t look at him, it hurt so much! It was all he could do to keep himself from pleading with the man to take him back. He swore aloud, reaching for the anger that had abandoned him. Coughing, he turned his back on his former lover.

Why couldn’t Greg leave him alone? He’d chosen Fleur. However good his reasons might be, Mycroft could not forgive him. 

Greg _had to_ leave Mycroft alone! They were in public — anyone could see! Mycroft _refused_ to have a scene in public! Glancing around, Mycroft saw Thijs Vanthourenhout studiously pretending not to notice what was going on in front of him. The chaperones were not so circumspect — one looked at them with interest whilst the other two sniggered. 

At least he’d kept his voice down — he doubted it had carried as far as the chaperones. As far as they knew, Mycroft was put out about losing the race. Then he saw the telly camera pointed their way and his spirits sank to his shoes — they’d been so careful when they were together! Now they were having a spat recorded for everyone to see.

If Mummy saw it, she would _know_. 

Humiliated and anxious, Mycroft allowed the official to usher him up the stairs to the stage and took his place on the lowest step on the podium. It was difficult, standing there next to Greg for the long minutes of the ceremony. Especially when he was expected to step up on the top step, along with Vanthourenhout, the three of them standing close together with their arms raised in victory. In the past, Greg had used the opportunity to pull Mycroft close. Today, he didn’t touch. Mycroft felt deeply, deeply ambivalent about that.

He still held the overall lead in the DVV series, so Mycroft stayed by the podium as Lestrade and Vanthourenhout were taken to doping control. He was so relieved to be rid of them, but the surcease of tension, left him limp with exhaustion.

Alun was still in the warming tent with Mycroft’s bikes and gear — more gear than he’d realised before. There was the case in which the mechanic carried his tools, the smaller duffel with Alun’s personal gear, and a number of the smaller bags that Alun and Anderson and Father lugged to every race.

The chaperone wanted Mycroft in doping control, but he detoured to talk to Alun.

“They’re gone?” Mycroft knew his family had left him, had known since no one had been there to greet him at the finish line. “They’ve left without me?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

Mummy must have discovered his affair after all. Had Sherlock told her? It hardly mattered.

“I don’t know what happened.” Alun said. “Anthea… Anthea — I’ve never seen her so angry. She… your father said that you… that they…”

“They’re disowning me.” Mycroft said dully.

Alun’s hand gripped Mycroft’s arm. “Yeah, I’m sorry, Mycroft. They wouldn’t listen to reason... we tried to stop them going… in the middle of a race, for God’s sake! But your mother… she was adamant.”

Mycroft nodded. Of course she was. He’d know she would be immoveable if she ever found out.

“Anthea — she insisted on going with them to Garin House to get your things. Mrs. Holmes wanted her thrown off the bus… but your Uncle… he intervened.”

“I’m sorry that you had to experience that.”

“You don’t have to apologise, Mycroft. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not your fault.”

“It is my fault.” Mycroft told him. “Alun… thank you for staying…”

“It’s an honour to work for you! The way you race! I wouldn’t leave you.”

Gratitude shuddered through Mycroft, loosing another coughing jag. Alun patted his back. “Go on to doping control, Mycroft.” He said gently. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

“Thank you.”

As Mycroft followed his chaperone to the tent where he would give samples for drugs testing, he finally understood — finally accepted — that he was alone.

Completely alone.

He’d lost everyone he cared about. Sherlock, Mummy and Father, Uncle Rudy… Greg. He’d lost Greg! Mycroft choked back a sob. And now he’d never see his brother again. It was too much!

_Mycroft had nothing and no one left._

No… that wasn’t quite true. He had Alun and Anthea. 

That realisation brought tears to eyes — tears he pretended were a side-effect of his relentless cough.

Mycroft did not know where he would go. _He had no where to go_. 

He used Boy Herman’s handkerchief to soak up the tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you see that coming?


	16. BRITISH NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIPS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft attempts to pick up the pieces.

Thijs Vanthourenhout opened the door to his spare room and followed Mycroft through, carrying his suitcase. Mycroft had his bike and his gear bag. He set them down in the little room.

“I am grateful for your hospitality.” Mycroft said. He didn’t know Thijs well — they spoke at races, but beyond some interest a year ago in having Mycroft join his team, they had no personal relationship. He’d been surprised when Thijs called and offered Mycroft his guest bedroom. 

Surprised and mortified. _Everyone_ knew about the dramatic scene at Brussels University, where his family — his team, his race support — had abandoned him. It had been reported upon in the cycling press. Two cycling commentators— one a former pro cyclist — had released a podcast about him, about his successes this year, his promise, and his family’s abrupt retreat. There were tweets, many, many tweets, speculating on what had happened and how it would affect him. Mycroft was trending. Even non-cycling press had picked up his story.

It was a nightmare.

He imagined that his phone would be ringing non-stop if his parents hadn’t had it struck from their service. Silver linings.

After a sleepless night on Alun’s couch, Mycroft had borrowed his mechanic’s mobile to arrange service in his own name. He was resolved to rent a hotel room — Alun’s couch was not a long-term solution. It was not even a several-day solution.

Checking his email, he found one from Thijs Vanthourenhout asking him to ring.

Mycroft had refused Thijs kind offer at first, but the man was insistent. When his wife, Lucinda, had put them on speakerphone and joined her husband in entreating Mycroft to stay with them until he could find his own place, he had been unable to refuse. He accepted as graciously as he knew how. It pained him that he had shown up at their door without a gift for his hosts. But their only care seemed to be for Mycroft’s well-being.

He barely understood their kindness. Mycroft knew he did not deserve it.

What would have happened if Greg had still been his? The shock of his family’s abandonment would have been softened. Mycroft would have had strong arms to console him, a best friend in whom to confide. He would have solace, respite from the gnawing, terrible _aloneness_.

Mycroft had never been truly alone. 

He hadn’t been prepared for this. 

Mycroft gritted his teeth and tried to simply get on with it — life. His new life.

Anthea too, was invaluable — he was deeply indebted to her. The same night he’d been abandoned, she had called a friend with a lorry and pressed him into service packing and moving Mycroft’s possessions from Garin House. She spent the next morning sourcing and letting a storage space in which to store his bikes and gear. 

Mycroft overheard her tell Alun that Mummy had initially refused to let her take Mycroft’s bicycles. It had been Sherlock who threw such a strop that Mummy gave in — she never could stand his tantrums for long.

Mycroft was worried how Sherlock would fare without him. They had depended upon each other for so much. He feared that his little brother had depended upon him for more than either of them realised.

When she first arrived at Alun’s, Anthea had given Mycroft a note. “From your brother.” She said.

Mycroft had retreated outdoors to read it. 

_I didn’t tell them_ , it started. Mycroft’s relief was profound — he hadn’t allowed himself to know how betrayed he felt. Sherlock’s loyalty was a tiny light in an unrelenting darkness.

_Mummy was talking to that woman that Lestrade used to tolerate — she said something. I don’t know what, it was too boring to bother eavesdropping. Mummy told us we were leaving immediately afterwards. I KNEW she would find out — you were stupid to think she wouldn’t! YOU’RE SO STUPID! I hate you. I hate Mummy and Father! I told them they couldn’t stop me from texting you and they took my mobile! They’re changing my number and yours too. But I memorised Anthea’s number and she said I could send her my new number when I get it. We’ll have to communicate in code, Mummy’s going to start checking my phone again, I can tell. At least you can have toast now — you don’t have to follow your dumb nutrition plan anymore. You shouldn’t have broken your promise. I hate you. —SH_

Mycroft folded the note carefully and put it in his wallet.

\---

Lucinda Vanthourenhout — Lulu to her husband and friends — was a clever woman. Mycroft had barely spoken three words to her before, but now she was rapidly becoming a… well, Mycroft hesitated to say a ‘friend,’ but certainly a confidant. She was bright and charming, empathetic, and frightfully easy to talk to… and she was honest.

She knocked on the door of the guest room, forcing Mycroft from his fugue of despair. “I thought…” Lulu said, her smile encouraging. “I’d invite Greg for dinner.”

Mycroft closed his eyes against the oppressive misery. It was always there, but it leapt and squirmed when he thought of Greg. “Apologies… I’m not feeling well… I don’t think I can…” He struggled for a polite way to refuse.

She frowned. “I thought you two were close.”

The familiar fear gripped Mycroft — did she suspect?! Then he remembered that it didn’t matter anymore. “No.” He told her simply. “Not anymore.”

“You had a falling out?” Lucinda sounded surprised.

“Something like that.” He told her. “I would not feel… comfortable… in his company.”

She took his hand. “I’m sorry — you two were so lovely together. I don’t think I’ve seen him so happy.” 

Mycroft wondered how much Greg had told her, how much she had guessed. Regardless, it was clear to him that she _knew_.

Lulu squeezed his hand gently. “It’s Fleur, yes? The baby. I was surprised when she showed up at the race.”

“Yes.” The misery gripped harder, a juggernaut treading on his heart, his soul, stamping them into a smear of grease in the gutter. It was difficult to breathe. “I can’t… I’d rather not discuss it.”

Lulu nodded sympathetically. “What is your next race?”

“National Championships.” He muttered, relieved at the subject change. “I have to arrange transport to England.”

“You must be overwhelmed, everything suddenly on your plate. Can your agent help? Mine found me my first flat.”

“I don’t have an agent.”

“No? Well, put that on top of your to-do list.”

Mycroft sighed. “The top of my to-do list is becoming increasingly crowded.”

“Let me help — I know a good agent. More than one. If you’d like, I can call and see about an appointment. You look too tired to lift your mobile.”

He was. “Oh no, I am already imposing on you.”

Lulu elbowed him and laughed. “It’s no imposition. I’ll call right now.”

“Lucinda…” Mycroft didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to think about it… but he had to know. “Did... did Greg ask you to do this?” The words tasted foul in his mouth. “To put me up… to help…?”

“Yes, he did. Well, he asked Thijs.” Mycroft nodded, mentally beginning to pack. He had to leave here. “But I’m so glad you’re here.” She said, gripping his arm with both hands and squeezing. “It’s not right, what happened. Your family… it’s not right. I wanted to help before Greg rang. Any way I could.”

He assessed her — trying to look beyond his humiliation. It was difficult… with effort Mycroft cleared his head enough to see her tells — the set of her mouth, the ease in her shoulders, the light in her intelligent eyes. It was the truth. Lucinda Vanthourenhout wanted him here — not because she pitied him, not for Greg, but because she was kind and caring and angry at the injustice of what had happened to him. Mycroft had so little experience with kind and caring people… Greg may have been the first. 

He decided to trust her… this much at least. 

Mycroft nodded tightly. He would stay. For now.

His relief was unexpectedly profound.

Within an hour, Mycroft had meetings scheduled with three agents and two solicitors that specialised in sport. It was good, he knew, forcing himself to act, forcing himself out of bed, out of the flat, out into the world. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, but he knew he must. Mycroft knew he was depressed, that was not in question, and he was in pain — so much pain he could not process it. He had lost too much too quickly. He wished the numbness would return, the wonderful, icy numbness that had overtaken him in the forest, in the rain.

But it was elusive. Mycroft had to simply get on with it. Wallowing in his grief would only hold him back. His family was lost to him and his relationship with Greg was over and the sooner Mycroft set it all behind him, the better. It was bitter to think that only three days ago, mummy had made him soup and called him ‘chouchou’… five days prior, he had been in bed with Greg, professing undying love… how could he have been so incredibly stupid?

How had he not guarded his heart? How had he not seen it coming? He was a fool.

It was a lesson Mycroft intended to learn well — sentiment could not be trusted. He was better off without it. He would not fall for it a second time.

He called Boy Hermans himself. The coach agreed to meet him for coffee the next day.

It hurt to see the dutchman — he reminded Mycroft too much of Greg. He shoved the pain aside grimly, viciously compartmentalising. 

“Hello, my boy, how are you getting on?”

“I’m well, Mr. Hermans.”

Boy Hermans’ kind eyes disputed that assertion, but he said nothing.

“I find myself without a coach.” Mycroft told him. He huffed the ghost of a laugh. “I find myself without quite a number of things, to be honest. I’m meeting with agents later today.” 

Boy Hermans asked with whom he was meeting and Mycroft told him. The coach nodded affirmation, praised two of them, and talked about what he had found valuable in an agent. Mycroft made mental notes.

“I was hoping that you could recommend a coach that might be a good fit for me.”

“I can. Let me make a few calls and I’ll send you a list.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’d take you on myself…”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Mycroft said too quickly, thinking of Greg, thinking of how desperately he needed to avoid Greg. 

Boy Hermans smiled gently. “No, I suppose not.” He paused, his eyes too knowing for Mycroft’s comfort. He wondered what Greg had told him — or what he had assumed. Did _everyone_ know his shameful secret?! “I knew your grandfather, you know.”

“Yes.” Mycroft frowned at the change in topic. 

“Not as well as some, but I knew him. He was a great racer. Great — he could have won the tour… the right tour… a climbers tour.* You have his look, Mycroft, his build.”

“I’ve been told.”

“I didn’t know your grandmother at all… but Marcel… Marcel never went anywhere without his soigneur. Where one went, the other followed. He and Florian were close.” Hermans’ gaze was weighted.

“You’re saying that my grandfather had a relationship with another man.” Mycroft said the words calmly. “His soigneur.”

Boy Hermans shrugged one shoulder diplomatically. “Perhaps. I only know they were close. Inseparable.” He glanced around and then back at Mycroft. “Your grandmother had Florian removed from the funeral. It was an ugly scene. He was distraught.”

Mycroft blinked, searching the Dutchman’s face… Boy Hermans was telling him that Grandmére knew that her husband and his friend were… were lovers. 

_Grandmére had known_. Mycroft remembered the hard look in her eyes when he’d asked about Marcel Garin, remembered how Mummy would redirect the conversation away from her father. She’d explained to him once, when he was still very young, that their marriage hadn’t been the happiest…

_Mummy_ … “At the funeral, she threw him out in front of… in front of family?”

“Your mother was there, yes. Your uncle was young, I don’t know what he understood. But your mother... she saw it all. She was quiet — at the time, I told myself she didn’t comprehend the situation. But I think she did. I think maybe it stuck with her.” 

Mummy’s virulent homophobia… had that been the seed? A father who preferred his male friend to his family. Watching her mother bar her father’s weeping lover from his funeral… seeing her mother’s jealousy and bitterness… letting it grow within her… 

Abruptly, Mycroft _knew_ that Mummy blamed Florian for her father’s death. She had always spoken harshly about Marcel’s death, saying that he should have known better. Mycroft had thought she meant the drugs, the dehydration… had she meant Florian?

It felt like truth, like he understood something about his family that had sat in the shadows all his life. 

Now that it was too late.

Mycroft shook Boy Hermans’ hand and thanked him. The coach wished him well.

\----

One week later, Mycroft was in Britain, in Shrewsbury, standing in the pissing rain, shivering in a plain black skinsuit. He was waiting for his call up to the starting line of the British National Championships — only Britons would be in the race, vying for the honour of wearing the British National Champion’s jersey for the coming year.

As last year’s winner, Mycroft would be called first.

For a year he’d proudly worn Britain’s blue and red striped jersey — had only put on the Holmes jersey for the few road races he’d entered — and Mycroft wanted it for another year. 

(Regardless, he would never wear a Holmes jersey again — better this unbranded skinsuit than honour the people who’d left him.)

As Mycroft rolled up to the line, all the cameras zoomed in on him — he could hear the commentators explaining why his skinsuit was unmarked, how his family had mysteriously abandoned him at the last race he’d ridden. How they were now estranged. He gritted his teeth and bore the scrutiny.

It was not getting easier to tolerate the unwanted attention. Mycroft met it all with an icy stoicism and refused to comment. Gone was the Mycroft Holmes who smiled and joked with the other racers. ‘The Iceman,’ the commentators declared, was back.

At least he would not see Greg here, would not have to contend with that torment. 

Mycroft had an agent now — Elizabeth Smallwood, the only person he’d ever met that might be tougher than Mummy. He was very glad to have her advocating for him. She had been handling the press and had advised him how to answer interview questions, when he found himself on the podium again. And she had fielded offers for him from _nine_ pro teams! Nine!

Together, they’d narrowed the teams down to four and Mycroft had meetings scheduled with three — the fourth was Sphere, with whom he’d already met. Smallwood was reviewing their offer with his solicitor. 

Agent, solicitor, soigneur, mechanic — Mycroft had four people on his payroll now, four people he was responsible for paying out of his earnings. Anthea and Alun _only_ worked for him, he was their sole source of income — that was... terrifying. He hadn’t even known how much his family had been paying them. 

Mycroft had been socking money away for years — the Holmes family had been wealthy since the mid 1800s. Great-great-great-great grandfather had made his fortune in trade — unfashionable but lucrative, he bought social legitimacy for his son. He went into government, as had a child from each generation of the Holmses. The result was that Mycroft had enviable political connections, and had never had to think about money.

And he hadn’t thought about money at all until the debacle with the gardener’s boy. After facing the threat of being cut off, Mycroft had taken steps. He’d established his own bank accounts and had funnelled funds into them steadily. He had enough to support the three of them for perhaps a year, if he were careful.

Thus, he urgently needed to sign a contract with a pro team. He needed a salary and entry into the truly big bike races — the ones that would get him noticed, garner him lucrative sponsor deals to pad his pocketbook for when his racing career was over. Elizabeth Smallwood thought she could get Alun signed on as a team mechanic, to whichever team Mycroft ultimately chose, relieving Mycroft of his upkeep, but Anthea... if he wanted to keep her, Mycroft would likely have to pay at least part of her way himself. 

After this race, Mycroft had two or three weeks to meet with the different teams, choose one, then negotiate and sign a contract. If Mycroft lived up to his potential, money would not be a problem. 

Until then... access to his well-endowed trust fund would be extremely helpful. His solicitor had already served papers to Holmescroft. He thought they had a good chance, but Mycroft knew Mummy would not make it easy. She would fight tooth and nail.

He was glad to be so busy — it gave Mycroft almost no time to miss Greg, no time to miss Sherlock. No time to dwell on the breakup and abandonment... no time to be furious at Mummy... no time to wallow in lonesome misery…

Mycroft also needed to carve out time and funds to find someplace to live — he was still haunting the Vanthourenhout’s spare room. Mycroft did not want to wear out his welcome there. He’d come to value Lucinda’s companionship greatly. And Thijs was an excellent training partner — the original hard man, he was indefatigable. Mycroft had quickly realised that if cyclocross races were twice as long, Thijs would be unbeatable.

Mycroft sighed. Thijs would probably enjoy the British National Championships — he loved wet, nasty weather. The worse it was, the better he raced. The man did not feel the cold, and he was too sturdy to be bothered by wind. Mud? Thijs ate mud for breakfast. This race would be right up his street.

“Hey, Holmes.” Watson had been called to the line eighth and squeezed himself next to Mycroft. The diminutive racer was the only real competition Mycroft was liable to face in this race.

“Watson.” He said. “Best of luck.”

John Watson laughed. He was wet through and his teeth were chattering. “Just want this shitshow to start already.”

Three minutes later, he got his wish. Mycroft sprinted — the starting line was on a road so muddy he wasn’t certain there was pavement underneath. Mycroft got the hole shot, taking the sharp left in first place. As he did, he heard the crashes behind him, men and bikes slipping in the mud and going down, piling up.

The entire course was mud.

The course wended right, then left again and spat him out onto a wide off-camber so thick with mud, Mycroft’s bike slid out from under him. Seamlessly he stepped off, clinging to the handlebars with one hand, and ran without losing forward momentum. Back on level ground he leapt upon the moving bike and sped through a deceptively deep mud puddle — it splashed filth up to his chest — and into a series of tight turns. The mud sticky under his tyres, Mycroft did not let up. He already had a significant gap over the other racers. Only Watson had a chance of catching him.

It reminded him of racing in the U23 field — most of his races had begun this way... and finished with only Mycroft in the picture. 

The course straightened out parallel to a lake and Mycroft shifted and sped up. The wet mud provided little traction, but he barely needed it riding straight on. He soft pedalled before the next turning, bleeding off a bit of speed. He rounded the corner successfully and dismounted at the foot of the flyover — it was twice as tall as any Mycroft had ever raced. 

He bounded up the steps, they were deep enough that it was difficult to establish a rhythm — and they were covered in mud from the earlier races. Mycroft galloped up, leaping from step to step. Miraculously, he didn’t slip. He jumped back in the saddle on the top and cruised down the other side.

And crashed spectacularly in the puddle at the bottom. 

He skidded on his bottom through a veritable pond of mud, his bike skittering off in the other direction. Mycroft jumped to his feet, slipped and landed hard on one knee — he immediately thought of Mummy, how she would worry and fuss over his knee…

_Mummy wasn’t here_.

She _had_ been here, Mycroft knew. He had watched Sherlock race in the Juniors that morning. He had done well, Sherlock, finishing first in his age group, third overall. He’d stared at Mycroft defiantly from the podium and he’d _ached_ to run up and fling his arms around the skinny teen. Mycroft had looked for him after, but his brother had a large, muscular shadow who kept the press away — and would no doubt keep Mycroft away if he attempted contact.

Sherlock had turned fifteen five days ago, and Mycroft had not attempted to contact him. 

By the time Mycroft regained his feet, retrieved his bike from the bottom of the ramp, put the chain back on, and got going, at least twenty racers had ridden past.

He navigated the maze of muddy corners, the course going back and forth and turning in on itself. He rode under the flyover, passing two riders in the process, slopped across a wide field, and rode into the bike pit. 

Alun was there with a fresh bike. Mycroft would likely need one every lap in this weather.

Sprinting out of the pit, Mycroft realised he’d lost his sunglasses. The lenses he’d had in today weren’t dark, they blocked glare and were an effective barrier against getting mud in his eyes. He was also muddy from head to toe, his shoes and legs as black as his skin suit.

He spared a thought for the cut on his calf. He’d have to remember to clean it thoroughly.

Approaching the planks, Mycroft made a quick calculation and dismounted. He ran over the barriers, lifting his bike, then took a running leap into the saddle and sprinted to catch the next rider ahead of him.

The course was neither varied nor interesting. It was contained within a grassy field with only a slight rise on one end, relying on intricate turns instead of natural features. Had it not been raining it would have qualified as the least interesting course Mycroft had ever raced.

He overtook another racer in a corner, ducking under his arm. He latched onto a group of four and waited for an opportunity to ride past them — he found it when the course doubled back along the lake. Mycroft sprinted past them fast enough that none were able to catch his wheel.

He jumped a small ditch, pushed his weight as far back in the saddle as he could to anchor his back wheel as he rode up a short, slippery rise, and splashed through another puddle at the top.

As Mycroft rounded the corner, he realised he was in the finishing straight — the starting line had been walled off, the finish line put in the centre of an exceedingly lumpy, muddy field. He passed another racer.

By the end of the second lap, Mycroft had caught up to Watson. That racer did _not_ look pleased to see him. Mycroft surmised that he’d been having visions of glory…

He rode the third lap with Watson, trading pulls. The wind picked up and the gusts were strong enough to push rider and bike any which way in the slick mud. It was a strange feeling, suddenly skating sideways. Somehow, Mycroft managed to keep his seat. He had the balance of a cat.

They’d left all the other racers far behind, and by the time they crossed the finish line again — and Mycroft got confirmation that they were the front of the race — he thought it was time to take affirmative action.

He rode hard to the off-camber — too fast to ride the off-kilter mud successfully — leapt off his bike as the ground tilted and ran hard. Watson had not been off his bike as quickly and Mycroft opened up a small gap.

Mycroft kept the gap as he navigated the many corners and puddles, the sucking and slippery mud. When he reached the straight along the lake, he sped up again, attempting to increase the space between them. He bled off speed as he approached the tight corner that would take him to the flyover.

He caught a flash of Watson as he turned — he wasn’t on Mycroft’s wheel, but he couldn’t judge how far back he was. Then he was concentrating on the wide, muddy steps up the flyover, concentrating on staying on his feet. At the top, he felt a brief wave of trepidation — the last time he’d taken the flyover this fast, he’d wiped out at the bottom.

The wind gusted hard as Mycroft descended, and he fought to hold his handlebars steady.

Before he knew it, he had splashed through the puddle at the bottom and into the maze of turnings. Mycroft got a better sense of the gap to Watson — roughly ten seconds. He sprinted under the flyover, taking every opportunity to widen the gap.

He did not slow at all through the sloppy field. The wind tried to push him around, but Mycroft turned his wheel into it, and stayed on track. 

He took a fresh bike from Alun in the pit.

“Twelve seconds” Alun shouted as Mycroft leapt into the saddle. He was out of the pit as Watson was riding in.

Mycroft chose to dismount and run over the barriers again — the chance of slipping and falling was too great to bunny hop the bike over. 

He navigated through the twisting, turning course, mud spraying up from his wheels. It landed on his face, in his mouth, in his eyelashes…

Doubling back along the lake, Mycroft shifted into a harder gear and gunned it. He hopped the ditch and shot up the short rise, and risked a glance back — his lead over Watson was growing! He began the fifth lap with a renewed confidence.

Mycroft’s confidence was not misplaced. Watson never caught up — Mycroft steadily built his lead through the four remaining laps. As he approached the finish line for the last time, the crowd roared. Fans leaned over the barrier, holding out their hands. 

Mummy had hated the giving of ‘high-fives.’ She said it was common.

Mycroft slowed slightly and slapped the outstretched palms of the spectators, giving high fives to kids and fans.

He pumped his fist in the air as he won the elite men’s British National Championship jersey for the second time in as many years. If he didn’t smile, the commentators forgave him.

\---

Anthea squirted his face with water from a bike bottle, and Mycroft bared his teeth so she could clean the mud from them. He spat on the ground and unzipped his black skinsuit, stripping to his waist. Anthea had a big, soft towel around his shoulders immediately. 

It was a weight off his skinny chest, knowing he would not run into Greg here. Knowing he would not have to see him.

Mycroft stripped off and dropped his mud-coated socks and gloves into a rubber tote, wrapped the towel around his waist and pulled the filthy skinsuit off underneath. It too went into the tote.

Someone brought a basin of warm water and a flannel and Mycroft sat down and began to clean the dirt from his face and neck. He wiped off his wrists and began to swipe at the mud on his legs.

Watson came into the tent — he was a low-key presence. His amiable personality seeming to shrink and disappear off the bike. He was as unobtrusive as Greg Lestrade was charismatic. It made Mycroft wary.

Watson shot Mycroft a pleasant smile and wandered over. He looked like a reverse racoon without his sunglasses — they’d blocked the mud that coated the rest of his face. The golden hair above was a tousled mess. 

“Congrats, Holmes!” He said, glowing with endorphins. “Good race!”

“Thank you. You as well.”

Watson scoffed at that — it was obvious that Mycroft had ridden away from him more easily than he liked. He patted Mycroft on the shoulder companionably and said, voice low, “I have something for you. Don’t leave before I can give it to you.”

Mycroft could not have been more surprised. “For me?” 

“Had a chat with your brother earlier.” Watson muttered. “Before his bodyguard decided we’d talked long enough.” He sauntered casually back to his corner of the tent to clean off and change.

A sense of possibility, of hope, filled Mycroft’s breast — he tried to quell it. It wouldn’t do to become excited only to be disappointed again. 

Mycroft dressed quickly, the hat going a long way towards keeping him warm. It was new, plain black with no logo, just like his warm-up trousers and wool jumper. Just like his skinsuit.

With a last glance at Watson, Mycroft walked into the adjacent tent to be interviewed.

\---

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft’s heart sank — the interviewer was one of the colourful commentators who had made the podcast about him. It had been largely complimentary of his skill and had celebrated his palmarés.** The man had also related how the first (and only, until now) time he’d interviewed Mycroft, he’d asked if he could call him ‘Mike.’ Mycroft had refused, of course, and the rest of the interview had been awkward. On the podcast, the commentator had laughed about the incident, referring to Mycroft as ‘a bit of a tightly-wound character.’

Mycroft smiled politely, knowing it did not reach his eyes, and took his place in the ‘hot seat’ — a metal folding chair in the centre of a circle of bright lights.

“Great show out there, Mycroft Holmes! An absolutely smashing win!”

“Thank you.” 

“And in absolutely horrifying weather! It looked gruelling.”

Mycroft shrugged. “It’s not unusual weather for cyclocross. Everyone had to contend with the same conditions, the same course.”

“Indeed, indeed… but you made it look almost easy.” The interviewer paused briefly to see if Mycroft would expound — but only briefly, he was a pro. “How does it feel to keep hold of the jersey? You must be chuffed.”

“Winning the British Championships has been a goal of mine this season. It’s been an honour to wear it over the past year and I’m very happy to have the opportunity to continue.”

“You had a very dramatic crash today. We were on the edge of our seats. Were you confident that you could retake the lead?”

“Relatively confident. I’ve been doing well in the international races, I hoped I would do well here.”

“You’re too modest, Mycroft!”

“I assure you, I’m not.” Mycroft told him with a dry smile.

For a moment the interviewer was taken aback… but then he laughed warmly. “I think you’re funnier than people give you credit for.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I would almost have to be, wouldn’t I.”

The interviewer laughed again. “So, you’re not as ‘icy’ as your nickname suggests. I have to say I’m delighted to catch a glimpse of the human being.” He paused, and Mycroft knew what he would address next. “You’ve had a bit of an upheaval recently, personally and professionally, and that can’t have been easy.”

“No, it hasn’t been easy. I haven’t commented on the situation as I’d prefer attention stay on the racing, where it belongs. But I will say that it was just as abrupt and shocking to me as it appeared. Fortunately, I have excellent support within the cyclocross community and that has made all the difference.”

“Glad to hear it, Mycroft. Glad you’re landing on your feet.” Mycroft marvelled at how sincere he sounded. “Have you spoken to your family since they departed the race in Brussels?”

“I have not.”

“Your brother raced earlier today… so your parents were here…”

“I assume so. I didn’t see them.” Mycroft said, struggling to keep sentiment from showing in his voice or on his face. “I watched Sherlock race. He won his age group, took third overall — I couldn’t be more proud of him.”

The interviewer nodded. “Were you able to tell him so?”

Mycroft felt his face shutter. “No.” The Holmes bus had been a veritable fortress, with two large men outside, protecting its inhabitants from the press — and from Mycroft.

“Well, if Sherlock’s listening, he knows it now.” 

Mycroft had nothing to say to that and several awkward seconds ticked past.

“As British Champion, you’re definitely going to the World Championships now — is winning there a big goal for you? Do you think you can? Greg Lestrade will be difficult to beat.”

Greg’s name fell like a blow to his solar plexus, forcing all the air from his lungs. How could it still hurt so much? Every time was just like the first time, like he’d just caught sight of Greg’s face with ‘I’m leaving you’ written all over it. The despair was endlessly black, sucking him down…

Mycroft struggled to keep it from showing. “Yes… erm… winning the World Championships is definitely a goal. As for if I can… it depends on so many things: the course, how I’m feeling on the day, how my competitors are feeling… luck…”

“Ah yes, luck. She can be elusive, can she not? Well, here’s wishing you the best of luck at the World Championships, Mycroft Holmes. I hope you can bring it home for Britain!”

\---

“We’re going to be teammates.” John Watson said. They were loitering behind the podium stage, waiting to be called. “At Worlds.” At the World Championships, riders raced for their country, not their team.

“Indeed.” Mycroft wanted to shake the man and insist he give him Sherlock’s message.

“I’ll work for you.” Watson said. “Not that you’ll need me really… but just say the word.”

“You should race U23.” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “You can win the jersey.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do — you’ve been going well in the elites. You have a real chance.”

Watson nodded. “You don’t mind? The Belgians... they’re going to be coordinated... hard to beat.”

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “You can win the jersey. You can be U23 World Champion, John.”

Watson took a deep breath, fire growing behind his eyes. “Thanks, Mycroft — I’ll do my best.” He fiddled with his pocket then pressed something into Mycroft’s hand. “Sherlock said you’d know what it meant.”

Mycroft glanced at the scrap of paper, at the series of letters and numbers, and smiled. “Thank you…I cannot express how grateful —”

“It’s fine.” Watson cut him off, looking embarrassed. “Sherlock’s an interesting kid.”

“He is…”

Watson frowned. “You ok?”

“I worry about him constantly.” Mycroft blurted.

Watson looked up at him in surprise. “You do?”

“I do. We’ve never been out of contact before... he’s… more fragile than he seems.”

“I might see him again.” Watson said slowly. “We train in the same area… if you want to reply to…” He nodded at the scrap of paper. “That.”

“That is not necessary.” The message contained all the information Mycroft needed to initiate contact through an app on his phone. But he looked at Watson, taking in his bland affect, the deceptively harmless impression he gave. John Watson might be able to get in under Mummy’s radar. “Just… keep an eye on him, John. If you can.” 

John Watson nodded thoughtfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Tour de France (and all other stage races) change the course routes every year. Some years favour a time trialist who can climb, some favour a climber who won’t lose a ton of time in a time trial, some balance the two. There are iconic climbs in the Alps and the Pyrenees that often feature, but every tour is different.
> 
> ** record of achievements — a racer’s palmarés is a list of wins, podiums and awards.
> 
> Mycroft’s lost just about everything... he’s doing as well as he can pulling himself together. Can’t be easy. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for your comments — I love hearing your thoughts an reactions.


	17. ANNECY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, still suffering from the recent estrangement of family and boyfriend, is mulling what pro cycling team to join.

At least Mycroft had been prepared. 

He knew he’d see Greg at the training camp, knew he’d have to interact with him. It had only been seventeen days since their breakup. Thus, knowing it would be difficult — and very painful — Mycroft had girded himself.

But Greg’s face, when he rounded the corner and caught sight of Mycroft, said very clearly that not only had he not expected to see him, it was not a nice surprise.

Mycroft felt his jaw go tight as he watched Greg’s tan skin pale and his mouth tighten into an anxious line. “Hello.” He said formally, pointing his eyes over Greg’s left shoulder. Mycroft did not want to watch the interplay of emotion on his former lover’s face. He did not want to know how much Greg regretted their short-lived liaison. Being this close to him already hurt almost more than he could bear.

“What are you doing here?” Greg blurted — then turned red with the consciousness of how hostile it sounded.

What was Mycroft doing in Annecy at Team Amstel’s three-day training camp? He’d been invited to come. He’d been encouraged to come. He’d known it would be difficult, seeing Greg, but ultimately, Mycroft hadn’t wanted to turn down the chance to ‘test-drive’ a pro cycling team. It was not an opportunity he was likely to get again.

He knew from the outset that he’d have to interact professionally with the man who had so recently been his lover and best friend. But when Mycroft had lain in his new bed, under his new duvet, in his new flat, it had not seemed quite so daunting. He could be endlessly polite, he could be completely civil to the worthless, dull and despicable personages that Mummy and Father had entertained throughout the years. It was a skill Mycroft had been obliged to master at a young age.

If he could do that, he could bear to be in the same room as his ex-lover.

Mycroft had not considered that Greg Lestrade might not care to be in the same room as _him_.

\---

Mycroft’s meeting with the D.S.* of Amstel had gone very well. He liked how Thibault Drucker ran the team, he liked the approach. Mycroft was vastly more impressed than he’d expected to be, more impressed than he’d been with any of the other teams with whom he’d met — even Sphere.

Mycroft had gone into the meeting with Drucker knowing he _could not_ sign with Amstel. He’d only agreed to meet because his agent had insisted, but there was _absolutely no way_ he could join Greg Lestrade’s team. Just the thought of the man sent Mycroft into a downward, depressive tailspin, he wouldn’t put himself through the torture of travelling with him, staying in the same hotels and eating meals at a communal table with Greg for an entire year.

But by the time he left the meeting with Thibault Drucker, Mycroft had been so favourably impressed that he agreed to join the team at a three-day training camp — a sort of ‘try-out’ to see how he would fit in. To see if the team culture suited Mycroft and if Mycroft suited the team.

“We know you’re talented, Mycroft, that is not in question.” Drucker told him. “On Amstel, all of our racers are potential winners. We think of ourselves as a wolf pack, we work together for a team win. It doesn’t matter who crosses the line first, as long as he’s wearing an Amstel Jersey. A win for one, is a win for all. 

“This approach would allow you to shine, Mycroft. Instead of spending five years pulling your team leader up mountains so he can win the Tour de France, you’d be given your head — you could win stages, possibly one day races. Even some of the shorter stage races.

“My concern is that you’ve never been part of a team — you’re a star, a winner. You’ve never sacrificed yourself for other riders. On Amstel, we all sacrifice. We all take our turns riding for a leader. Does that sound like something you’re willing to do?”

It had sounded exciting! On Sphere, they wanted to hire Mycroft specifically to work for Jim Moriarty, their star racer who’d won six grand tours, including three Tours de France. Mycroft would get to ride in grand tours and gain invaluable experience, but he would not be allowed to contend for stages. He would be required to save his strength to chase attacks for Moriarty, to pull him up the mountain so he could launch himself at the end. If he proved himself, in several years, they might reassess… might try to develop him as a contender for the overall…

But if he proved himself on Amstel, if he worked hard and supported the other racers, they would take him to grand tours and on some stages, allow him to ride for himself! This year!

That was what Mycroft had wanted since he first got on a bike.

And Amstel wanted to support his ‘cross racing.

Thoroughly seduced, Mycroft decided to go to Annecy. After all, he and Greg had only been involved for two weeks — Mycroft couldn’t allow such a short blip of time to hold him back from achieving his dreams.

\---

The initial meeting with Greg took place as Mycroft was checking in with team management. He was in the lobby, road bike in one hand, gear bag in the other, duffel over his shoulder, greeting Drucker and Amstel’s head coach, the renown Hugo Charpentier. 

“I was happy to see you do so well at the National Championships, Holmes.” Charpentier was saying.

Mycroft realised then what he hadn’t allowed himself to appreciate before — how necessary it had been to do well, to _win_ , the British National Championships. If the pressure of his family’s abandonment had affected his results... well, at least some of those nine offers would have dried up. Mycroft would have been labelled temperamental and unreliable. 

He was still reckoning with that revelation — and suddenly, _Greg was with them_. He had the look of someone stopped in his tracks by a nasty shock.

“What are you doing here?”

“Come now, Lestrade.” Drucker interceded with a frown. “I thought you two were friends.”

Greg opened his mouth… but nothing emerged, the pause growing awkward.

“Greg was not expecting to see me.” Mycroft intervened woodenly. “I did not mention it.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Greg mumbled, finding his voice at last. “Just surprised.” 

“Surely you’re not put out that Holmes has won a few of your races?” Charpentier asked.

“No! It’s not… of course not.” Greg had gone from pale shock to red-faced embarrassment. “The rivalry has made us both better.” He took a breath. “Don’t think that means you’re winning Worlds.” Greg teased, sounding forced.

Drucker chuckled. “Holmes is here to take a look at us, see what we’re all about.” 

“And for you to determine if I would be a valuable acquisition.” Mycroft added.

“Indeed, indeed.”

“Well, erm, welcome.” Greg said unconvincingly. “I, uh, have to…” 

“Lestrade, would you show Holmes to his room? He’s sharing with Ondo on the third floor.” Charpentier said, cutting off Greg’s imminent escape.

“That’s not necessary.” Mycroft hurried to say. “I can find the room.”

“No, no.” Greg protested. He’d remembered his manners, damn the man. “I’d be happy to.”

Charpentier told them Mycroft’s room number and gave him a key card. Greg reached for Mycroft’s gear bag.”

“I’ve got it.” Mycroft said, hefting it.

“Don’t be stupid.” Greg muttered. Their hands accidentally touched as Greg took the bag from him and Mycroft felt it all the way to the pit of his stomach, an electricity buzzing unpleasantly. He struggled to keep his composure as he thanked Drucker and Charpentier. 

Mycroft followed Greg to the lifts, where they waited in pregnant silence. When the car came, Mycroft wheeled his bike in — it made him remember the time not so long ago that he and Greg had come in from a ride and both had their bikes in the lift… Greg had cracked a rib... Mummy had come in with them…

Abruptly, it was all too much. Mycroft had been an utter fool thinking that he could do this, act like Greg had not crushed him, act like Mummy hadn’t abandoned him like garbage, like he would find Sherlock in the room and everything would be as it was…

Mycroft missed that life — his life. He missed his family, he missed having people who cared about him. 

To his horror, he felt the itch of tears. He refused with the entire force of his will to allow them to fall. Mycroft would not display this pathetic weakness in front of his former lover. 

“Mycroft… please don’t take this the wrong way…” Greg’s voice was strained. “But… why are you here?”

Clenching his teeth, clenching his fist around the top tube of his bike, Mycroft replied. “I believe we covered that already.”

“Why are you _really_ here?”

Fury, cleansing and pure, crashed down upon him. “I’m curious, what would be the wrong way to take that? I am not lying to you.”

“That’s not… sorry.” Greg muttered.

“I am not here for _you_ , if that is what you are asking.”

The lift dinged and the doors opened. Mycroft darted out as fast as his bike allowed and followed the signs towards his room. Greg followed. 

“You can’t actually be considering joining Amstel.” Greg said. There was a pleading tone in his voice that offset the insult. Slightly.

Mycroft rounded abruptly and his ex-lover almost crashed into him. Greg took a step back — he was having a hard time looking Mycroft in the eyes.

The anger meant that Mycroft had no such problem. “I can’t be considering joining a team that very well might be the best for me to pursue and realise my goals?” He spat, sarcastic. “No, of course I’m not considering that. Why would I?”

“My, I just mean…”

“That you got here first?”

“No! I mean it will be difficult — for both of us.”

Difficult for Greg!? He had Fleur to console him. What did Mycroft have outside of the racing?

“I regret to inform you that is not amongst my considerations.” Mycroft whirled back around and continued down the hall.

Mycroft, please. We can’t… we can’t be on the same team.”

“Clearly, that is not true. We can — and we very well may. I suggest you make your peace with the idea.”

“I don’t want to fight about this.”

“Then _don’t_.” Mycroft found his door and stopped. He did not deign to look at Greg again. “Just leave the bag.” He snapped.

Blessedly, Greg did as he was asked, dropping the bag by Mycroft’s feet and stalking away. 

Mycroft’s relief was short-lived — Greg stopped at the end of the hall with a sigh and turned back. “Fuck… I’m being a complete cock.” He took several tentative steps towards Mycroft. “You deserve the best, Mycroft. If that means joining Amstel… well… we would be lucky to have you. I’m sorry I wasn’t… it’s just hard… yeah. No excuse… I’m sorry.” He turned on his heel and disappeared around the corner. Mycroft heard him summon a lift.

Without meaning to, Mycroft catalogued the facts that Greg had lost three pounds, had not shaved in four days, was sleeping less, and had had his dark hair clipped close to his scalp.

His hand twitched at the memory of feeling Greg’s thick, floppy hair between his fingers.

\---

Mycroft was rooming with a Basque. 

That thought lodged in his brain as sentiment crashed over him in an oppressive tidal wave. Greg! He was simultaneously a stranger and Mycroft’s closest friend… it was impossible. When would Mycroft begin to feel normal again!? He wanted to get in bed and curl up in a ball — and keep curling until he was so small that he disappeared.

He wished he’d never met Greg Lestrade!

With effort, Mycroft gathered himself enough to face his roommate. The man lay on his bed with his legs up, much the way Sherlock had done... 

All vestiges of his rage evaporated instantly. God! Mycroft missed his brother acutely — Sherlock had not responded to Mycroft’s messages. He’d heard nothing from him since Watson had passed him the coded note. 

Mycroft put off greeting the man until he was certain his voice would be steady.

 _“Hola eres vasco, si no estoy equivocado.”_ He said politely. 

“Sí! Patxi Ondo.” The man said, indicating himself enthusiastically. _“How did you know that I’m Basque?”_ He asked in Spanish. Mycroft deduced by his utter relief, that the man spoke little English and French — and no Dutch — and had been anxious about sharing a room. Patxi must be new to the team — otherwise he’d have known with whom he was sharing.

 _“You have the nose.”_ Mycroft said, tapping his own with a small smile. Patxi had the Basque ears too. “Mycroft Holmes.” He extended a hand and they shook.

As Mycroft unpacked, they had an absolutely fascinating conversation about the Basque language — the only remaining non-romance language in Europe, and one Mycroft did not (yet) speak. He was grateful for the distraction — an entire hour in which he did not think about Sherlock, Greg, Mummy, or how alone he’d been left.

It improved his mood and made Mycroft think that perhaps Amstel was not a lost cause.

He met the rest of the team at dinner — nine Dutch, six Belgians, five Frenchmen, a German, a Latvian, two Italians, a Columbian, an American, Patxi Ondo, and John Watson. Patxi was thrilled to meet Raphael Goméz, the Columbian, another Spanish speaker. Watson spotted Mycroft and grinned, making his way across the room right away.

“Mycroft!” He clapped Mycroft on the back. “You’ve joined the team!? Why didn’t you say?”

Mycroft favoured him with a small, but genuine smile. “I have not, as of yet, joined Amstel. I was invited here to see how we all get on.”

Watson nodded. “Thought you signed with Sphere.”

Mycroft shrugged. “My agent is looking at their offer.”

“Must be interesting,” Watson chuckled. “To have teams fighting over you.”

“No one is fighting, I can assure you.”

“No?” Watson looked sceptical. He rocked back on his heels, a considering look on his face. “I saw your brother two days ago.”

“Yes?” Mycroft could not help but let his eagerness show. “How is he?”

Watson smiled at Mycroft’s pointed interest. “He looked good. Your Uncle was along, so we couldn’t really talk… but Sherlock did say that your mother confiscated his mobile.” Watson paused thoughtfully. “Have you heard from him?”

“No — and now I know why. Thank you, John.”

Watson’s smile turned self-deprecating. “Come on, let’s get seats.”

Greg, Mycroft noted, sat as far from him as the long table allowed. That was best for both of them. Unfortunately, he could not summon his anger at the man. If he were honest — and if he overlooked Greg’s uncharacteristic boorishness — he understood and shared Greg’s objections about joining the same team. It pulled his spirits down, left him feeling embittered and unwanted.

He tried to keep his eyes from straying towards Greg, but kept finding them there. The man was so beautiful — even shorn and worn-looking, Mycroft wanted him with rabid hunger.

It did not help that he caught Greg glancing at him with soft eyes.

Sitting safely between Watson, and the Latvian, Mikel Vitola, across from Raphael Goméz and Patxi Ondo, Mycroft kept track of the conversations around him and of what Greg was doing — to whom he spoke, when he was quiet, when he appeared withdrawn...

 _I will not think about him! I cannot think about him_!

The food vaguely surprised him. He’d sent his nutrition plan ahead, to the team chef, and had been assured he’d be accommodated — as sick as he was of the plan, Mycroft did _not_ want to change his diet right before a huge race like the World Championships. 

The Amstel chef served the food family style, on platters that were passed down the table, and there were ample foods that fit within his strictures. Indeed, a number of the cyclists were restricting gluten or dairy or both. There were even two vegans who ate as well as the rest.

He guessed that the food was probably delicious — everyone ate with enthusiasm. But Mycroft had had little appetite since New Year’s. He found the meal tedious, an amalgam of textures that all tasted vaguely of cardboard. He filled his plate with the correct amounts of carbohydrate, protein and fat and worked through it methodically, forcing the much-needed calories down. His mood sank further as his stomach filled.

At least he did not feel in danger of heaving his meal into the nearest bin.

After dinner, there was a — _shudder_ — team building exercise. Mycroft participated by rote, finding it impossible to feign interest in the proceedings. His head began to ache.

Across the room, Greg was gloriously vital. His outgoing nature and magnetic appeal were impossible to hide and Mycroft did not wonder at how popular he was within the team.

By contrast, Mycroft was dull and cold. What would they all think of him? Disinterest at best, more likely outright dislike. He already saw Watson’s disappointment that he could not warm beyond politesse.

When they were broken into small groups, Mycroft’s only goal was to avoid Greg. He found himself with several sceptical Frenchmen. Once they realised that they could not taunt him for having a lack of French, they were cordial enough. Mycroft knew they were reserving judgement for the ride tomorrow — his legs would do the talking then.

Greg laughed in his group. It rang through the room like a beautiful bell. 

Mycroft was beyond relieved when he was able to escape back to his room.

Patxi came in as Mycroft was cleaning his teeth. He finished washing and changed into his pyjamas then handed the loo over to his roommate. He could hear Patxi humming cheerily. Mycroft tried not to be irritated.

Sleep had been elusive since Brussels. Mycroft no longer wanted to hide away in his bed. No matter how tired he became, he had trouble falling asleep. Worse, he woke in the night and lay awake for hours, unable to drop back off. Bed had become his enemy.

 _Why did I come here_? He asked himself miserably. _How did I think this could possibly be a good idea_?

 _How can I still be in love with him_?

Patxi cut off his reverie, humming on his way to bed. “ _You don’t mind_?” He asked, fiddling with his mobile and plugging it into a travel speaker. The room filled with a roaring noise. “ _I lived on the coast and now I cannot sleep without it — it will not bother you_?”

The roaring receded then rushed back and Mycroft understood it was the sound of the ocean. “ _It’s fine_.” Mycroft told him. “ _Perfectly fine_.”

\---

_Mycroft was in his new flat. It was white, empty, sunlight shining through the uncurtained windows. He felt ambivalent there — the need to furnish it weighed heavily on his mind. He preferred the empty, open rooms._

_He opened the door to the linen press and walked in — there he found an entirely new room, a room he had not noticed when he’d let the flat, nor when he’d moved in. Unlike the rest of the flat, this room was furnished and comfortable with an overstuffed green sofa and Chinese rug. Mycroft explored the room, examining the photographs on the walls, kneeling and peering into the cold fireplace. He liked the room, it felt good._

_There were stairs at the far end that he hadn’t seen at first. Mycroft climbed the stairs and discovered he stood in Greg’s bedroom in the barn — it overlooked the comfortable room with the green sofa, but the guest house’s gothic window and raftered ceiling stretched above him, above the platform bed with the crisp white linen in which they’d spent so many delightful hours._

_He heard Greg below, turning on the telly, moving around. He must have come in from a ride, Mycroft heard him padding around in socked feet, opening the refrigerator and starting the shower in the loo._

_Mycroft’s sense of well-being swelled. He stretched out on Greg’s bed — on the bed they shared — and waited for his lover._

\---

_“Holmes, wake up — it’s breakfast time.”_

Mycroft jerked awake — confused. He was not in Greg’s bed…

The knowledge of where he was, what had happened, hit Mycroft like a speeding train. It smashed him to bits and it was all he could do keep himself still and quiet. He wished he were dead.

Coming to Annecy had been a huge _mistake_.

All the progress he’d made, all his careful steps towards independence, towards self-sufficiency and well-being, all his efforts to leave his feelings for Greg behind, to reconcile with the estrangement of his family, of his brother — all of it undone.

Mycroft sat up, meaning to pack his duffel — he wanted to leave this hotel and go back to the little flat with the good light and antiquated kitchen he’d let in Antwerp. Go back to isolation where only Anthea and Alun, and to a lesser extent, Lucinda and Thijs, Elizabeth Smallwood and the solicitor intruded upon his solitude.

He _needed_ to leave.

“ _Go on, I’ll be down soon._ ” He urged Patxi. He felt logy and thick — Mycroft realised he’d slept the night through! That had not happened in weeks!

“ _I will wait — it is no trouble_.” Patxi was not yet dressed and went about gathering his clothes.

Mycroft nodded and climbed out of bed. He wanted to pack his things and discover where the team mechanics had stored his bike. He wanted to summon a taxi to take him to the train station…

But he needed the loo rather desperately.

When Mycroft emerged, washed, shaved and dressed with his hair still damp and curling, Patxi threw his arm around Mycroft’s shoulder. “ _Today we ride, my friend_!” He exclaimed. “ _Today we show them what we can do, yes_?”

Mycroft agreed — he could not bring himself to burst the man’s cheerful excitement and explain that he was leaving before the first team ride.

The gregarious Basque awaited him with a grin, clearly enthused for breakfast and what the rest of the day would bring. Feeling defeated, Mycroft allowed Patxi to usher him from the room and towards the lifts. He would shake him off in the dining room and return to pack.

Watson waylaid Mycroft in the dining room and stuck with him as they filled their plates from the buffet. As they sat down, Mycroft resigned himself to eating with the team. 

Greg came in, his eyes finding Mycroft almost immediately then bouncing away in discomfort. Mycroft felt his jaw tense and knot. Greg had shaved and was wearing the sky-blue jumper that brought out the brown of his eyes and tan of his skin. He looked glorious.

In comparison, Mycroft felt homely and plain — skinny, pale, anxious. He’d been deluded to think that someone like Greg would ever stay with him.

“Hey.” John Watson elbowed him. “You’re having a hard time, yeah?”

“What? No.” The misery at being caught mooning over Greg was intense. Mycroft set down his fork intending to make his apologies and flee.

But Watson put an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. “My dad died when I was young — that was… well, it sucked. I know you were close to your family, and I know how hard it is to lose them.”

“You… you’re very kind.” Mycroft managed.

Watson shrugged, retrieving his arm and returning to his breakfast. “No. I just… I get why you’re not feeling your best. I think it’s remarkable that you came here anyway.”

“Remarkable…” Mycroft muttered, feeling anything but.

“It’ll be better when we’re riding, yeah?” Watson observed around a mouthful of eggs. “Good, hard ride, always makes you feel better.” He huffed. “Started riding a lot after I lost me dad. Bike helped get me through.” He looked up at Mycroft for a moment then broke into a grin. “And I want to see how you’ll do on a _real_ climb. Think you can beat me to the top?”

Mycroft’s competitive drive flared. “We will see.” He said, picking his fork back up.

\---

“They call you ‘Iceman,’ no?”

The team had begun riding mid-morning, using a rotating paceline*** as they rode out of Annecy and started up the lower slopes into the Alps. It wasn’t something with which Mycroft had much experience and he admired its efficiency, admired how smooth and fast they were able to ride with a minimum of effort — with 29 riders, no one was on the front more than a few seconds.**** He drifted past Greg twice per cycle, but it was blessedly difficult to speak to anyone in the paceline.

But as the road tilted upwards, they stopped rotating and rode two-by-two. Mycroft found his elbow brushing Julian Faure’s, one of the Frenchmen he’d met the evening before.

“The commentators.” Mycroft said. “They must keep the audience entertained.”

“Oui.” When Julian said it, it sounded like “Weh,” careless and casual. “But they do not pull it from thin air, The Iceman. I believe it suits you.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Julian chuckled. “You are cool, yes? Nothing touches you… but we will see how you ride, no?”

 _Nothing touched him?_ Was that how he was perceived? Mycroft had thought his despair was only too obvious. John Watson saw it — Mycroft felt completely exposed.

As the road wended up the mountain, several of the Amstel riders dropped back — finding the speed at which the group climbed the mountain too challenging — and formed their own little group. The farther they climbed, the more riders fell off, and the smaller the front group became. Mycroft wasn’t finding the climbing particularly trying — it certainly required effort, but nowhere near his maximum.

John Watson, too, looked comfortable, as did Mycroft’s roommate Patxi and one of the Frenchmen — Phillipe Robert, he’d called himself at the team-building exercise.

With a grin, Watson pushed the pace. A Belgian and two Dutch could not hold the pace and began drifting backwards. The front group was down to six — the four climbers, the Columbian, and Greg Lestrade. Phillipe Robert looked pained. Greg stared fixedly at the back wheel of the rider in front of him, red-faced but placid. 

He was on the rivet — at the very edge of his ability. 

Mycroft lifted the pace again. Goméz whuffed and sat up, falling back immediately. Greg fought on, but it was a foolish fight. He would have been better off letting go and riding up at his own speed, rather than attempting to follow the sudden accelerations.

Patxi tapped Mycroft on the hip as he rode past, putting in a hard effort — Mycroft exerted himself mightily and caught his wheel, and the two of them gapped the others. 

It was colder at that altitude. Snow had been ploughed off the road into white, metre-high walls to either side. The air was crisp, freezing the moisture in Mycroft’s nostrils.

Watson and Phillipe Robert worked together to bridge the gap to Mycroft and Patxi, eventually catching the roommates before the crest. The four of them rode together to the top. 

At the crest, a team van had stopped and several of the soigneurs were handing out gilets,***** newspapers and bottles of water. Mycroft took a newspaper. He sat up as he rode and unzipped his jersey, stuffing the newspaper flat against his chest, and zipping up again — it would provide much needed insulation on the descent.******

He leaned low over the handlebars, his nose almost touching the stem, and pulled in his elbows. Mycroft wanted to be as aero as possible on the way down. He shot ahead of Watson and took the lead — he liked descending, it was all maths, geometry, riding the exact line through a corner that was fastest and safest. Skimming the edge of catastrophe.

He tapped his rear brake as they approached a switchback and sat up a bit to catch the wind with his torso, slowing before he entered the corner. 

Mycroft tilted his bike, his body, foot on the inside up and on the outside down, for balance. He lifted himself an inch off the saddle and pushed his hip up, leaning the bike under him for the apex. He sailed through the corner and returned to the aero position as the road straightened.

His fingers felt numb from the cold and freezing wind battered his face — his eyes teared and his nose ran. 

They rode like that, 65, 75, 80 kph down the mountainside, down below the snow line. Daredevils scoffing at death. It was exhilarating!

As the gradients lessened, Mycroft began to pedal again. Watson, behind him, whooped. “That was amazing!” He shouted. “I’ve never gone that fast — where did you learn to do that?” He had followed Mycroft through every corner, and Robert behind him — but Patxi Ondo had not been so brave and floated thirty metres behind, disappearing out of sight as they rounded another corner.

Mycroft smirked. Every cyclist had to know how to descend well. Nervous descenders like Patxi had a handicap of which other racers would take advantage. If he could be left behind, he would be.

Mycroft had learned how to corner at speed by racing motorcycles. He’d loved it, had loved teaching Sherlock how to judge the angles, calculate the correct line.

_Sherlock!_

He shoved his brother from his mind, smoothing the frown from his features. Mycroft jerked his elbow, indicating that Watson should take over the lead and tucked in behind Phillipe Robert.

Goméz, Julian Faure and two others caught up just then, their cheeks bright red from the chill. They took over the front for the tail end of the descent. More and more riders joined them, Greg amongst them. He appeared reinvigorated by the descent, grinning as they swung through another corner.

At the sight of him, Mycroft’s misery flared and burned — the excitement of the descent forgotten. He forced it back in its box and slammed the lid down. He kept his eyes on the road after that.

Watson passed him a gel from the car and they handed their newspapers back. Mycroft swallowed the sticky carbohydrate gel as they pedalled across the valley towards the next climb. He was beginning to look forward to it — his legs felt good. Mycroft fostered the tiny bloom of joy the competition engendered. He clung to it. 

He loved racing his bike! He hadn’t felt this good in weeks!

Mycroft hadn’t felt good at all since New Year’s Day — a memory he shunted aside frantically before the despair could take him again.

As the next climb began, Mycroft went to the front and lifted the pace immediately. The _gruppetto_ ******* formed quickly, the sturdier riders organising their own pack to help each other up the mountain. 

Once again Mycroft, Watson, Patxi Ondo, Phillipe Robert, and Goméz were the prime movers at the front. Greg did not attempt to match their pace this time. He abandoned the climbers early on to ride at a steady rate — to avoid the sudden uphill accelerations that were so taxing.

Robert attacked first, waiting until the gradient was a leg-breaking fourteen percent. Mycroft lifted his speed slightly, and worked his way up to the Frenchman. Goméz joined them next, huffing a rhythm as he pedalled.

Watson and Patxi Ondo dangled four metres back.

Mycroft assessed his companions. Goméz was climbing better than on the last mountain, but he was suffering badly. Phillipe Robert, on the other hand, looked comfortable. Mycroft attacked.

Goméz cracked, dropping back to Watson and Ondo, and then farther, unable to hold their pace. Robert chased, bridging up to Mycroft.

Keeping the pressure on, Mycroft waited until the next super steep section and then gunned it again. His legs complained — lactic acid burning in his thighs and lower back — but it wasn’t anything Mycroft hadn’t experienced before. He rode through it.

Robert was outdistanced, but he fought bravely to close the gap between them. Mycroft waited until he tagged onto his wheel, and immediately attacked again — this game was mental as well as physical. Just like in cyclocross, Mycroft needed to crush his competitor’s spirit.

With a huge effort, Phillipe Robert made his way up to Mycroft again. 

Shifting one gear harder, Mycroft spun his pedals fast and accelerated. When he glanced under his arm, Robert was struggling. Mycroft knew exactly how long he could expend this much power and he pushed himself to the limit. Robert never cracked, but he never again caught up to Mycroft either. Mycroft steadily increased the distance between them.

By the time he reached the snowy mountaintop, he had over a minute on the Amstel climber. In the privacy of his mind, he pumped his fist in victory.

Charpentier, the head coach, was standing by a car at the crest, holding out a newspaper. As Mycroft took it from his hand, the man smiled approvingly and said, “Good show, Holmes!”

Mycroft was certain he would be offered a contract.

Later in the day they turned back towards Annecy, taking the road along Lac d’Annecy — it was mostly flat, a respite for the legs after labouring up alps for hours. Mycroft still felt good — he was in peak shape for ‘cross and training with Thijs Vanthourenhout had given him an excess of stamina. He went to the front and sat in the wind that gusted off the lake and pulled the tired team all the way back to the hotel. 

The effort flooded his system with endorphins, keeping Mycroft from dwelling on his problems.

\---

At dinner that evening though, the familiar depression dragged Mycroft down. He liked Amstel, he liked Drucker and Charpentier, Watson, Ondo, Goméz and Faure. He liked the camaraderie on the team, the way the racers joked and teased and challenged each other, made each other better. Mycroft liked the idea of joining the wolf pack, of supporting these men to victory and being supported. 

But the reality was that if Mycroft joined Amstel, Greg Lestrade would be ever-present. Mycroft would have to find some way to be around Greg without feeling like throwing himself at the man’s feet and begging for another chance.

Without feeling like he wanted to die.

Because being in the same room with his former lover broke him.

Mycroft was hyperaware that Greg sat five seats away on the same side of the dining table. And even though he knew he needed to do it, it was harder to eat than it had been the night before.

Phillipe Robert had taken the seat beside him. The Frenchman was thirty-six and had spent the bulk of his career on Amstel. The competitive fire in his eyes after Mycroft had bested him, might, Mycroft thought, keep him racing at a high level for a few more years.

Though possibly not on Amstel. Thibault Drucker was notoriously unsentimental when it came to retaining riders as they aged. That had to be weighing on the French climber’s mind. Mycroft suspected the man saw him as the harbinger of his forced retirement from Amstel.

“So, Iceman,” Robert asked in English. “What happened with your family? Why did they leave you? And in the middle of a race?”

Ah, yes. Robert did indeed feel threatened.

“Jesus, Phil!” Watson exclaimed. “Don’t be a twat.”

Robert shrugged elegantly. “Something must have changed in a short amount of time. It is most curious.”

“Mycroft has _feelings_ , you wanker.” Watson snapped. “Ignore him.” He said to Mycroft. “He’s always like this — has to poke the bear.”

“Do you have feelings, Iceman?”

Mycroft regarded him sharply. “Who does not have feelings for their family?”

“Yes. True. But you are grown up. You don’t need mother and father anymore.”

“Fuck off, Phil!” Watson’s aggravation was pulling attention to their end of the table. 

Mycroft abruptly felt absolutely exhausted. He should have left Annecy that morning. He should not have stayed, should not have ridden with the team. His head throbbed and his eyes began to ache.

“To leave you during a race… it is most remarkable.” Robert continued. “You must know why.”

“I do.” Mycroft admitted softly. 

“You don’t have to say anything, Mycroft.” Watson said, protective. “It’s no one’s business.”

“But if he will join the team?” Robert said. “Should we not know this?”

“It’s no one’s business.” Watson repeated loudly.

Down the table, Greg stood up, anger etched on his handsome features — but Mycroft saw clearly that he was at a loss, at a complete loss for what to say. He was afraid to out Mycroft, afraid to out himself, afraid to say the wrong thing, make it all worse. Mycroft’s headache pulsed and squirmed and he felt completely defeated.

“Why did they leave you, Iceman?” Robert needled.

“I’m gay.” Mycroft told them, voice even and low. “My parents discovered that I’m gay and they disowned me.” He met Phillipe Robert’s eyes defiantly. “Now you know.” He looked around the silent table, at the faces of the Amstel team members, at Charpentier and Drucker. “Did everyone hear” Mycroft asked raising his voice. “My family disowned me because I’m gay.”

Mycroft stood up from the table, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. Watson stumbled upright next to him, looking ready to fight, but Greg slumped into his chair, hiding his face. “Now you know.” Mycroft told them all. He turned on his heel and left the dining room.

He would pack and get a taxi before they finished. 

\---

Mycroft sighed when he heard the soft knock at the door. Why couldn’t they all let him alone? He hadn’t thought any of the men at the table would want to confront him… but perhaps he’d underestimated the enmity his announcement might inspire.

Or worse, Greg was angry and afraid about how this would reflect on him.

It had been a foolish thing to say. Mycroft still wasn’t certain what had possessed him — perhaps the bone-deep exhaustion at having hidden himself for so long. Perhaps some sort of self-hating sabotage.

He was an idiot. Not only had he burned his bridges here at Amstel, the thirty-odd people at the table would spread his admission throughout the cycling world. They were probably all texting their friends as he packed. Perhaps there would be another podcast.

No team would want him now.

The knock sounded again, startling Mycroft from his reverie. Girding himself for the worst, he opened the door.

Hugo Charpentier came into the room. It made sense, Mycroft decided, to send someone to officially rescind the invitation to Annecy, to make certain they saw the back of him.

“Is it true?” Charpentier asked. 

Mycroft felt drained, colourless. “Yes.” He sat down on his bed, folding his hands neatly in his lap. He kept his eyes on his knees, praying this wouldn’t take long.

“That is not right.” The coach said, sitting across from Mycroft in the one chair. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Ah. Well.” _Get on with it_.

“We’ve all been very impressed with you, Mycroft — especially knowing what stress you have endured recently. We knew you were strong, that you ride well, but no one expected you to climb as you do.”

“I am peaking — trying to peak — for the World Championships.” Mycroft pointed out. “The road racers on Amstel are not near their peak this time of year.”

“True.” Charpentier said. “But we have analysed the power data from today’s ride — you climbed the mountain the fourth fastest of all racers who have climbed it at _any_ time. That includes in le Tour and Paris-Nice.”

“Oh.” Was this his consolation? A few compliments before he was escorted to the door?

“We have taken a vote and it was unanimous — we want you on Amstel.”

Mycroft blinked — then risked a look at Hugo Charpentier’s face. “Unanimous?”

“Yes. All the riders agree. You are inspiring, they want to ride for you.”

“What?” Surely, he did not understand.

“We want you on the team. Thibault will send a contract to your agent tonight.”

“But… I told you… I’m gay.”

Charpentier nodded, looking sad despite the smile playing across his lips. “Yes. I don’t know why your parents feel that matters, but at Amstel…” He shrugged expressively. “It is of no consequence. Our sponsor does not care about it. Oh, the press might try to make something of it, but results are what matter. And we are confident that you will represent Amstel stunningly.”

Mycroft stared at the man, trying to work out why he was taunting him in this manner… and if he was not taunting him… how could it be true?

“Your parents, I think, they have given you the impression that you should be ashamed.” Hugo reached out and gripped Mycroft’s shoulder. “No one should be ashamed of who they love.” He nodded once and stood up. “Think about it. We would be excited and honoured if you chose to join us.”

The coach left quietly and Mycroft sat still on his bed for a long time, attempting to reconcile Charpentier’s words with reality. He was still there thirty minutes later when Patxi Ondo burst into the room.

 _“You are on the team!”_ He exclaimed, thumping Mycroft’s back. _“I am so happy! None of these other jokers speak Spanish! Only Goméz, and his accent! Ugh!”_

 _“You are happy?”_ Mycroft asked.

 _“Yes, of course. I will beat you up the mountain — better we are on the same team, yes?”_ The Basque laughed and fell back on his bed.

Mycroft turned towards him. _“Aren’t your family… traditional?”_

 _“My brother is homosexual.”_ Patxi said matter-of-factly. _“There was drama at first, but now, Mamá loves his husband more than she loves me!”_ He peered at Mycroft and his face softened. _“Your family is still in the drama, yes? Don’t worry, Holmes, they will get over it. They always do.”_

Mycroft blinked, the shock finally beginning to wear off and comprehension sinking in. _Amstel wanted him_. Thibault Drucker and Hugo Charpentier and Patxi Ondo didn’t care that he was gay!

He doubted his family would ‘get over it.’ But being part of a team that, _knew_ and accepted him? That was amazing! That was incredible. That was more than he’d ever thought possible.

\---

Later that evening, Mycroft quietly left his room. Despite Patxi Ondo’s soothing ocean sounds, he was too wired to sleep. And he could hear Patxi snoring softly, much like Sherlock used to do, and it tore at him. 

He was attempting to reconcile the world he’d known with the place he found himself in now. 

He _wanted_ to join Team Amstel!

But still there was Greg. Greg did not want him here. 

Mycroft wasn’t sure that he could do it, get over the hurt. Get over loving a man that could barely stand to look at him. How could he join this team, knowing he’d have to spend days at a time with Greg? It was too hard.

Eschewing the lifts, Mycroft crept down the stairs toward the lobby. Maybe he would take a walk outdoors in the cold, see if that woke him from this dream — or drove home the strange reality.

“Fleur, it’s fine!”

The words, stinging in a harsh whisper, stopped Mycroft where he stood — at the bottom of the stairwell, hand on the door to the lobby, an instant from tugging it open. Mycroft let go the handle like it burned.

“Yes! He’s here — I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know he was coming.” The familiar voice sounded tense and exasperated. “Thibault Drucker doesn’t consult me about who he invites to training camp.”

 _Greg_ was on the other side of the door talking with his girlfriend. No, his partner, the mother of their child. 

“I’ve barely talked to him, Fleur! There are forty other people here.” 

Mycroft knew he shouldn’t be eavesdropping. He knew he should turn around and creep back up the steps.

“It’s not like Mycroft _wants_ to talk to _me_ —” Greg protested. “ _Don’t call him that_!”

Mycroft had known they were speaking about him, but the confirmation was still shocking.

“I’m not taking his side — Christ, Fleur, there are no sides here.” Greg sighed, exasperated. “I’m sorry that you feel that way, but I have never been unfaithful to you.” 

Her response was loud enough that Mycroft could hear the indistinct shouting through the door.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Greg told her. “You can’t blame Mycroft, you can’t —” He paused, listening. 

The inner war — whether Mycroft should leave now or continue to listen — raged on… he knew it wasn’t healthy to eavesdrop on his former lover’s life. But… they were talking about _him_!

“Stop… please, just stop… you’re acting like this is my fault — I didn’t lie to you —” She must have cut him off, Greg stopped talking with an impatient huff. “No! You and I weren’t together!”

Mycroft hadn’t thought it was possible to like Fleur less than he already did, but he surprised himself.

“I can’t promise that.” Greg snapped. “Because it’s ridiculous!... he’s here as part of the team! … For fuck’s sake, Fleur… no, _you’re_ being unreasonable — you can’t tell me who I can and can’t talk to! You can’t —” He listened for several seconds. “If he joins the team, you’re going to have to get over it… stop… just… I can’t… no, Fleur… no… he didn’t… no… he didn’t _make me gay_! I was already…” Another pause, more distant shouting. “I’m not talking about this anymore…. I’m not… no… I have to go… I have to go… yeah, tomorrow… yeah bye.”

Greg’s moan was exhausted, despondent. The hopelessness in his voice mirrored Mycroft’s own.

For the first time since Mycroft had seen Greg’s face and _known_ their affair was over, he thought about what it was costing Greg. He had understood intellectually that there had been regret, that given a choice, leaving Mycroft was not what Greg would have chosen at that time… but Mycroft had felt so betrayed, so adrift and grief-stricken… so _unworthy_ of his love... he hadn’t given real credit to the notion that this had been wrenching for Greg too. 

Greg _was_ shattered by their breakup and his girlfriend was not taking it well.

Not that it mattered. The door between them might as well have been an ocean. They were still apart. This didn’t change anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Directeur Sportif
> 
> ** A rouleur, in Cycling, is a rider who goes well on the flat and rolling terrain. They are characterized less by their size, but by their style on the machine; a magnificent stroke tuned to sustained power, not high revolutions or bursts of acceleration.
> 
> *** rotating paceline: https://youtu.be/S129pCsN-YU
> 
> ****The rider on the front expends 33% more energy than the riders in their slipstream. This is why road racers ride so close together — they are taking advantage of the shelter to conserve energy. It is truly amazing how much easier it is when riding behind another cyclist.
> 
> *****Gilet — a wind proof vest. 
> 
> ******Newspapers happen to be great for blocking wind. After a long climb you’re hot and sweaty, and the last thing you want to do is freeze while you’re bombing down a mountain pass; the cold temperatures have actually been known as cause hypothermia. Clearly the place you want to insure is the warmest is the mid-section, and that’s where the paper is going. It’s tucked flatly under the jersey to cover the stomach and chest area at the top of the climb and then taken out when the cyclist has reached the bottom. Stuffing newspaper under a jersey isn’t the most technically advanced form of wind protection, but for the circumstances of going from overly hot to suddenly cold, newspaper has seemed to stand the test of time  
> *******Gruppetto: In road bicycle racing an autobus or gruppetto is a group of cyclists who form a large group behind the leading peloton. The autobus forms on mountain stages when non-climbers can't keep up and drop off the back of the peloton during the climb. These riders are generally sprinters or domestiques unconcerned about their finishing positions in the mountain stages. Their primary concern is beating the elimination time to ensure their survival in a multi-stage race such as the Tour de France. As such they are amongst the best descenders, pushing to make up enough time to stay in the race.
> 
> Those of you wondering if Fleur knew what she was doing when she told Mummy Holmes about Mycroft? Yes, pretty sure she did. But Greg did not and still does not know. He's being a real twat to Mycroft, but that's at least partially because of the pressure she's putting on him. Because that's what a functional relationship is like? Uh, no. 
> 
> Next week, the World Cyclocross Championships! Are you rooting for Belgian Greg, British Mycroft or (outlier) Dutch Thijs Vanthourenhout? Will John Watson win his age group? Will Sherlock? What about Lulu Vanthourenhout?
> 
> Thank you for all your comments — not a whole lot of people invested in an AU featuring secondary characters in a niche sport, but I am so happy to have interested readers. You're the best!


	18. WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS PT 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The World Cyclocross Championships begin with an unfortunate bang.

Mycroft was proud of himself. Through practice and effort, he’d managed a simulacrum of the numbness he’d experienced when Greg had first cast him aside. The secret, he’d discovered, the trick, was emptiness.

Emptiness and white noise.

Patxi Ondo’s ocean sounds had been something of a revelation — the soothing roar had allowed Mycroft to sleep through the night. His utter exhaustion had receded, his head had cleared, and his mental acuity had returned.

Each morning when he awoke in his new flat, its unfurnished rooms open and restful, Mycroft meditated on the growl and rumble of the white noise. He took the crushing press of memories — betrayal, abandonment, loneliness — and methodically replaced it with staticky nothingness. He let it fill him, let it take the place of all the sentiment, all the emotion. Let it fill him until he was empty.

It made him hard and cold and completely, wonderfully _functional_ and _effective_ in ways he hadn’t been in weeks. 

Perhaps in ways he’d never been.

It was addictive, this restful, roaring numbness. It lifted him above the rabble, allowed him to think clearly and act forcefully. It was the anodyne for all his pain.

And it worked: Mycroft was looking directly at Greg and he felt nothing. 

\---

Cyclocross World Championships Schedule: 

Saturday: Under-19 Women: 11:00am  
Saturday: Under-23 Men: 1:00pm  
Saturday: Elite Women: 3:00pm

Sunday: Under-19 Men: 11:00am  
Sunday: Under-23 Women: 1:00pm  
Sunday: Elite Men: 2:30pm 

The World Championships were raced over two days in January — this year they were in Switzerland, in Dubendorf outside Zurich. Mycroft arrived two days before the first race with Anthea and Alun for support (in addition to that which was supplied by Britain for the national team). For the first time possibly ever, he had his own hotel room.

Living in his new flat, Mycroft had come to treasure solitude. He needed it to achieve the numb state.

With the discovery of how to pull numbness around himself like a cloak, the idea that his parents and Uncle were likely already in Dubendorf didn’t phase him. The thought that Greg Lestrade was holed up with the Belgian team sparked no feelings whatsoever. Seeing members of Amstel at different events before the races was pleasant — it engendered no panic about his sexuality being widely known. The only thing that pinged on his emotional radar was Sherlock. Mycroft was determined to communicate with his brother.

To that end, Mycroft enlisted John Watson.

It was tricky — Watson was part of the British National team thus it would be obvious to Mummy that he had some relationship with Mycroft — but Sherlock himself was part of the British National Junior Men’s team. It helped that Watson wasn’t racing in the same field at Worlds as Mycroft and he’d been friendly with Sherlock prior to the estrangement... and the man’s ability to fly under the radar was almost supernatural. He would be wasted if he wasn’t snatched up by MI6 when his racing career was finished.

Mycroft had given Watson a prepaid smartphone — it was charged and had a sim card that worked throughout Europe. If Watson could slip it to Sherlock without anyone noticing, Mycroft felt certain that his brother could keep it hidden.

There was a breakfast for the Junior and U23 racers at which several of the elite racers were speaking — Greg Lestrade and Lulu Vanthourenhout were featured, amongst others — and Mycroft thought this event would be Watson’s best chance. The young racers would be moving around the large room, mingling and chatting. Sherlock’s chaperones would be on guard for Mycroft, not an unobtrusive nineteen-year-old. And in their street clothes, it would be easier to carry a phone unnoticed, easier to pass it along.

Having given the mobile to Watson at the hotel, Mycroft had to wait to discover the outcome — not an ideal circumstance, he would not have outsourced the scheme if there had been any other choice. Instead of waiting tensely in his room, he dressed for the weather and took his bike out to the race course.

It was dry and windy as Mycroft began his reconnaissance, riding slowly through the twists and turns, the ups and downs of the World Championship course. He was not the only racer trying it out — a number of the elite men and women were taking advantage of the absence of Junior and U23 racers to test angles and lines through the various hazards. The bright red and yellow kit of the Spanish racers flashed by, followed by the solid orange of the Dutch.

As Mycroft rounded a blind corner, he found the Belgian racers — sans Greg Lestrade and Lucinda Vanthourenhout. Their cerulean jerseys with the red, yellow and black stripes across the chest stood out handsomely in the grey day. 

Thijs Vanthourenhout, resplendent in orange, let the rest of the Dutch team ride on to chat with Wurst in his Belgian colours — Worlds was one of the very few races each year that Wurst would work for Vanthourenhout’s rival, Greg Lestrade. The two of them waited until Mycroft pulled level.

“Holmes.” Thijs rode beside him along the wide power straight. “What do you think of the course?”

“It will depend on the weather.” Mycroft said. “If it’s dry, it will be a fast course.”

Vanthourenhout nodded. “Forecasters are saying rain.”

Mycroft looked up the steep hillside, the run up, the off-camber, the plunging descent. “If it gets muddy, it’ll be carnage.”

Thijs grinned. “Let’s hope for rain then.”

Mycroft smirked. Rain wouldn’t be bad for him — but the cold would take more of a toll. Since New Year’s Mycroft had lost what little body fat he’d had and he felt the chill more intensely than ever. It would depend on how cold he got between warm-up and the start. Once they were off, he would be working hard enough to raise his core temperature. As long as he wasn’t bordering on hypothermic from the wait.

Wurst launched himself up the run-up — it should be easier than the run up the hill in the sand at Brussels’ University, even if it became a bit muddy. Mycroft and Thijs Vanthourenhout followed.

It was a long course with a number of interesting features. Mycroft would have liked a long climb, but he could win on this course if everything went his way. He started a second lap, determined to do everything he could to _make_ things go his way.

An hour later, Mycroft felt he understood the course — at least when it was dry. He’d ride another lap or two at speed for some intensity.

As he swung onto the start/finish, a slew of juniors swarmed onto the course. The young people’s event must have ended. 

Greg Lestrade rode onto the course.

He looked magnificent in the Belgian jersey. Cerulean blue stretched tightly over his broad shoulders and defined his narrow waist. In between the black, red and yellow stripes circled his torso.

As he rode around the corner, off the tarmac, Mycroft took a moment to breathe. He concentrated on the roaring of the ocean, the static of a heavy rain. He let the sound fill him, let it crowd out any more complicated feelings, let the peaceful emptiness reign.

Lucinda Vanthourenhout hailed him. Thijs was with her, he saw as he waited for a stream of riders to pass before crossing the course.

“It’s too crowded.” She complained. “The Dutch team is riding to Adilsberg, through the forest. Would you like to come?”

“I don’t want to intrude.” Mycroft told her. He _did_ want to find a place to do a few sets of intervals whilst his legs were warmed up.

“Don’t worry.” Thijs told him. “Lulu’s coming — if a _Belgian_ is coming, you might as well.”

Lucinda laughed with her husband. “Honestly, Mycroft, I was thinking we could peel off once we got into the forest. Get some real training in.”

“And leave me with the children.” Thijs moaned. 

“That sounds acceptable.” Mycroft said with a smile at the big Dutchman.

Mycroft almost repented the decision — rounding up the Dutch Juniors took longer than he’d expected. But Lulu was good company. 

“This cross-border marriage.” Mycroft asked her. “Does it make Worlds awkward at all?”

“Perhaps if we were in the same field.” She said. “It might. There are a few team events that keep us apart — like the breakfast this morning — but our respective countries let us share a room, so it’s not so different than being home.” She made a face. “Amstel doesn’t have a women’s team, so we’re used to being in separate caravans, even different hotels.” Lucinda — who raced road as well as ‘cross —was on one of the best women’s teams in the world, which was not funded half as well as the poorest men’s pro-tour team. Cyclocross gave her much-needed income. If she won the jersey, she’d get a bonus and a modest salary bump.

Mycroft nodded, noting that the line of orange-clad riders was pulling out. He and Lucinda tagged onto the back.

They navigated through unfamiliar neighbourhoods to the edge of the forest where they turned onto Katzenschwanzstrasse — it was a wider road, but traffic was sparse. The forest was gorgeous, thick with leafless trees and silent. It brought to mind the little wood that Mycroft had found after he and Greg had broken off their affair, the little woods with the cold rain that had first made him numb. He took a deep breath, relishing the emptiness inside him, the big echoing vault where his emotions for Greg and Mummy and Father had been.

Lucinda rode up the line to the leader to consult for a moment, and Mycroft found himself in amongst the Dutch Juniors. They rode well, holding straight lines and keeping their shoulders relaxed and hands loose on the bars. Some of them were tiny — he remembered when Sherlock had been so small…

Abruptly, there was the sound of squealing brakes and cracking carbon — _a car was driving into the line of racers!_ The Juniors were swerving and one tangled his handlebars with Mycroft as the car barrelled towards them! Mycroft braked hard!

He was flying, colour and sound rushing around him…

Then the pavement rose up and smashed into his face. The abrupt impact punched all the air from his lungs in a whoosh. He slid, his body a rag doll, flopping and skidding and finally coming to a stop.

Mycroft lay still for a moment, gasping for air like a fish. Then his lungs filled again and he began to get his bearings. Where was the car?!

Adrenaline had him rolling over, sitting up and searching for it — the only vehicle in sight was speeding away down the road. Had that been the car? Hit and run?

Riders were milling about — at least a third were on the pavement, some injured enough that their compatriots stood over them. Lucinda, he saw, was intact and on her mobile. Good. 

The Junior that had tangled with Mycroft was laid out nearby. His face was covered in blood and he was asking questions… then a moment later, asking the same questions over. He was concussed and he’d broken his front teeth on the pavement.

A girl touched Mycroft on the shoulder. “How are you?” She asked solicitously in careful English, grimacing at his face. She was very petite, her orange kit stretched tightly over her flat chest and narrow hips, the outline of her athletic bra a raised relief on her torso. She had a mouthful of silver braces that made her teeth look huge. Under her helmet, her dark hair was pulled back into a utilitarian ponytail that brushed her shoulder.

“Sir?”

Mycroft blinked. “I’m fine, my dear.” He answered in Dutch. There was blood in his mouth. He tongued his teeth and found one pushed in. He carefully moved it back into alignment. It should be ok… he hoped he wouldn’t need a dentist, like the boy certainly would. He ran his tongue along his bite, relieved that none of his other teeth seemed affected.

He glanced around for his bike, wanting to get it out of the road whilst he took a moment to pull himself back together.

Then it hit him — this was not good! Not three days before the biggest race of the year! This was disastrous!

Cursing internally, Mycroft vowed that this would not keep him from the competition!

He assessed his body for injury, testing his limbs for pain. He seemed to be intact. His face throbbed, and one of his gloves was torn, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

The Dutch girl was offered her hand. Mycroft looked at it dubiously — she was tiny! — but he took it and allowed her to help him to his feet. She was stronger than he’d expected. She squinted at Mycroft. “Are you Mycroft Holmes?”

“Erm… I am” It wasn’t surprising she would recognise him. All the Junior races likely knew the Elite racers by sight. “What is your name, my dear?”

“Loes Van Poppel.” She said, lisping a little through her braces. 

“What field are you racing?”

“Junior Women.”

“The first race of the competition. I wish you luck.”

She smiled, her cheeks pinking. “Thanks.”

“And thank you for your assistance. Have you seen my bicycle?”

She showed him where one of the Juniors had taken it, off the side of the road. One of his brake levers was crooked, the bar tape scuffed and torn. Mycroft pulled the front wheel between his legs, closing his knees on the fork and smacked the offending lever back into position with the heel of his hand. It took a few whacks. Alun would take it apart and make sure it functioned perfectly, but in the meantime, this would get him back to the hotel.

Lucinda rode up and stopped next to him. “Jesus, Mycroft! Sit down.”

Mycroft tried to smile, but his face was not cooperating. “I’m fine, thank you.” He murmured.

“You’re not.” She said. “You should go to hospital in the ambulance.”

It was arriving, the paramedics jogging towards Thijs who was waving his arm. Mycroft frowned — the Dutchman’s hand was bloody.

Lucinda followed his eyes. “Van Anrooij.” She said. “Car hit him. He’s pretty badly off.”

“And the boy.” Mycroft indicated the Junior who’d knocked his teeth out. She nodded, taking note.

“One of the women dislocated a shoulder.” She added. “Thijs fell pretty hard.” 

“Have you contacted the police?” Mycroft asked, anger surging, mingling with the waning adrenaline. “I saw the registration plate.”

Lucinda gripped his arm. “You did? That’s brilliant!” She lowered her voice to keep the Juniors from overhearing. “I think he hit us purposely.”

“That or the driver was impaired.” Mycroft agreed. He visualised the vehicle as it had sped away and told Lulu the registration number. As she stored it in her phone for the police report, Mycroft turned his bike back the way they’d come and mounted it.

“Mycroft, you aren’t going to ride.” Lucinda objected. 

“I’m perfectly fine, Lucinda.”

“You’re not.” Her small, gloved hand closed around Mycroft’s upper arm. “You’re in shock.”

“I’m going directly to my hotel.” Mycroft assured her, pulling his arm gently free. “I’m fine.” 

He pushed off before she could answer, riding slowly. He again tried to assess his condition — and noticed that he _was_ bleeding — it had dripped down onto the front of his jersey, a long red stain. His mouth was still full of blood, the taste of iron unpleasant on his tongue. He spat it onto the berm. 

He probably should go to the medical tent, have his injuries assessed… he would, after he stopped at the hotel, if Anthea couldn’t clean him up. Likely she could — he’d had road rash aplenty. Once clean and bandaged it would heal quickly.

The hotel wasn’t far and Mycroft felt better as he went, speeding up slightly. Halfway back, he wriggled his phone from his pocket and asked Siri to ring Anthea. Blood dripped from his face onto the phone. Mycroft wiped it impatiently on his jersey.

Anthea agreed to meet him out front of the hotel with a flannel— he didn’t want to bleed all over the lobby. He saw her waiting as he navigated into the parking lot.

“Fuck! Mycroft!” Anthea rushed over to him. “You didn’t say you needed hospital.”

“I don’t.” Mycroft told her. She took hold of his bike and he let her have it.

“You do!” She exclaimed. “You shouldn’t be riding.”

“I’m fine.” Mycroft groused.

Anthea made a complicated face — worried, indignant and long-suffering all at once. She ushered Mycroft into the hotel lobby and propped his bike against the wall in the entry. “Sit.” She commanded, pointing at a bench. “I’m calling Alun to come get your bike. You’re going to A and E.” She peered closely at his face and grimaced. “Hold this here — carefully!” She pressed the damp flannel gingerly against his chin.

“Ow!”

“Hold it there!”

“Anthea…” Mycroft protested, taking the flannel.

“You need stitches, Mycroft. I’m not arguing about it.” She had Alun on the phone in seconds. “I’m going to bring the car around. Wait here for Alun”

“Fine.” Mycroft said in the tone that made it clear he thought she was making too big a deal over it.

“Alun will be here in a minute.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft sat back, closing his eyes. His body would be sore — Mummy would be beside herself when she heard…

Mycroft cursed fluently. _He’d forgotten that Mummy had disowned him_. 

He breathed deeply, reaching for the white noise. It was harder now — the crash, the bleeding, possibly the shock, it had all drained his reserves, made it difficult to fully pull the peaceful curtain of numbness between himself and the turbulent world.

The shock was beginning to get to him and despite the warmth of the lobby, he shivered. Setting the flannel aside, he unclipped his helmet strap and took it off, resting it in his lap. 

Finally, he heard Alun. The mechanic had brought Mycroft shoes, warm-up trousers, a down jacket and the plain back hat.

“Bloody hell, Mycroft!” Alun exclaimed. 

Mycroft took the hat from his hands and pulled it onto his head. It helped with the chill. “It’s just blood.” He said.

Alun, knelt in front of Mycroft to unbuckle his cycling shoes, scoffed loudly. “You’ve torn up your chin pretty good — gonna need stiches to close that up. Looks like you got your mouth too.”

Blood had dripped from his face onto his helmet in his lap. Mycroft harrumphed as he pulled on the light down jacket.

Shoes off, Mycroft stood and stepped into the warmup trousers Alun held out. He gave Alun his helmet and tied the drawstring at his waist then sat down again to pull on his trainers. 

Anthea pulled up outside and honked. Alun opened the lobby door solicitously for Mycroft. Mycroft stood up, feeling the first twinges of tightness in his body, and walked to the car. 

_Mummy would flay that driver alive!_

He closed his eyes again as Anthea pulled away from the curb, and focussed on his breath, focussed on the sound of the ocean, the tides roaring in and rushing back endlessly. 

Empty. Empty. He needed to be empty.

\---

Mycroft was given seven stitches in his chin and three on his upper lip — over the tooth that had been pushed in. His mouth and jaw were swollen and achy. 

The tooth, at least, seemed to be doing well, its root was healthy and its enamel uncracked. Mycroft’s gums had already firmed, and the tooth was not loose. He thanked his lucky stars he wouldn’t need extensive dentistry to repair or replace it.

The Junior who’d cracked his front teeth was in the next cubicle — he hadn’t been so lucky. He’d fractured his maxilla and would have to wait for it to heal before he had root canals on his front teeth. That or the dentist would pull the broken stubs and, when the bone healed, give him implants. In the meantime, he would not have the use of his front teeth.

Jens Van Anrooij was in surgery. The woman with the dislocated shoulder was being discharged, her arm in a sling. She looked devastated — she wouldn’t be racing this weekend.

But Mycroft would!

The A and E doctor bandaged the rip in Mycroft’s stitched, swollen upper lip as well as she could, and bandaged his chin somewhat more successfully. She told him to keep it clean and dry and have the stitches taken out in seven days. 

Before he could leave, Mycroft was corralled by the Kantonspolizei and obliged to give a statement about the hit and run. With the registration plate he gave them, he hoped they could hold the driver responsible.

Back at the hotel, he drowsed as Anthea massaged his legs and back for almost two hours, searching for knots and tight places. She found some in his neck and shoulders, but his legs were miraculously unaffected. 

Mycroft went back to his room — the mirror showed him a nightmarish version of himself, upper lip swollen and turning purple... puffy bruising around his nose, chin, cheek and by his left eye... red staining the gauze taped to his chin... a smear of dried blood down his neck to complement his pallor.

Mycroft pulled the blinds, turned on the white noise and lay down to nap.

He woke feeling disoriented. The room was dim — and his phone was pinging.

Mycroft snatched it up and opened it… and found a message from his brother!

|| SH || 17:24  
_So you DO care, after all._

The grin that split Mycroft’s face _hurt_! He belatedly remembered his injuries. Laying back he began to compose an answer.

|| MH || 17:26  
_Of course I care, brother mine. Simply a matter of devising a way to communicate._

|| SH || 17:26  
_Mummy’s being IMPOSSIBLE. I TOLD YOU that you couldn’t keep it from her._

|| MH || 17:27  
_Indeed you did. But it was bound to happen, one cannot deny their nature indefinitely. Still, I’d hoped you’d be older._

_Or that Mummy would be more reasonable._

|| SH || 17:28  
_It’s MUMMY, Mycroft._

|| MH || 17:28  
_Yes, foolish of me. But the milk, as they say, is spilt. You’re racing on Sunday?_

|| SH || 17:28  
_Obviously._

Mycroft smirked to himself — then winced at the pain in his face.

|| MH || 17:29  
_You raced well in Shrewsbury._

|| SH || 17:29  
_And you crashed. You never crash._

|| MH || 17:30  
_Clearly, I do._

|| SH || 17:32  
_I rode the course today — it doesn’t suit us._

|| MH || 17:33  
_Not particularly, but we’ve both won on less suitable courses. And if it rains, it won’t be fast._

They discussed the course for a while, the specific features, the best way to approach them, the chance that it would rain and how it would change the course.

|| SH || 17:41  
_Father talks about you._ Sherlock wrote, changing the subject abruptly.

Mycroft’s surprise was acutely ambivalent. He wanted to know more — he wished he could see Sherlock and simply deduce the information he craved. He did not know how to ask for it. 

|| MH || 17:42  
_I imagine Mummy is not too pleased._

|| SH || 17:42  
_Idiot, he doesn’t do it when Mummy can hear. He talks to me._

Father talked to Sherlock about him? Mycroft had no idea what that meant.

|| SH || 17:43  
_He misses you. He asked if I missed you, as if that weren’t perfectly obvious. He won’t go against Mummy, but he did not want to leave Brussels without you._

That conformed to what Mycroft knew of his father — a well-meaning but ultimately weak man, unwilling to do anything that would cause strife at home. It made him feel wrung out.

|| MH || 17:45  
_I have been told that after a period of adjustment, our parents will accept my orientation… and whilst that may be true of our father and possibly even of our uncle, Mummy will never bend._

|| SH || 17:45  
_No. She has a blind spot where that is concerned. It isn’t rational, I told her so._

|| MH || 17:46  
_I expect that did not go over well._

|| SH || 17:47  
_There has been a lot of yelling. I stopped speaking to her and she took my mobile, my tablet AND my laptop. I have no email, Mycroft! No GPS. I cannot write Scotland Yard about how they’re botching their investigations. I can’t get on my message boards and tell the idiots there when they are foolish or wrong. It’s untenable, Mycroft!_

|| MH || 17:49  
_Perhaps you should make up with her._

|| SH || 17:49  
_But she’s not being rational!_

|| MH || 17:50  
_I didn’t say you had to AGREE with her. Simply that allowing her to think that you agree will make life smoother._

|| SH || 17:50  
_Ugh!_

|| MH || 17:51  
_A few more years and you can go to Uni and do whatever you choose._

|| SH || 17:51  
_I can’t wait that long._

\---

Mycroft went to Anthea’s room for dinner — after texting with Sherlock, he’d slept again — and for another tune up for his neck and shoulders. His soigneur’s hands were magical.

She clucked and checked his bandages first, re-taping his lip and making Mycroft promise to keep it on until she could assess it again in the morning. He agreed, knowing that he would not race with the bandages on. Perhaps a strip of Tegaderm, but nothing bulkier.

He was stretched out in the upholstered chair, finishing a protein shake, when there was a knock on the door. “Alun.” Anthea muttered as she went to answer. “What does he want?”

“How is he?” It was Greg’s voice, soft yet demanding.

Simultaneously, Mycroft’s heart sank and anger flared. _What was Greg doing here?!_

“I heard he was in a crash — a bad crash.”

“Hold on.” Anthea said.

“Is he OK? I heard it was bad — is he in hospital? I need to see him, Anthea.”

“ _Hold on_!” She said forcefully. “Give me a minute.”

He heard her close the door and she walked back into the room and surveyed Mycroft’s glower. “He wants to know if you’re alright.” She said. “He heard about the crash.” 

“Ridiculous.” Mycroft hissed. “I wasn’t hurt.”

“I don’t wonder that he heard you were bad off — you had a hunk of flesh hanging off your chin and you were bleeding all over yourself.”

Mycroft scoffed. “Hyperbole.”

“It’s not.” Anthea insisted. She patted her own chin. “It looked like you had a second mouth and it was screaming.”

“Charming!”

“I mean that his concern isn’t misplaced.”

“If the subject of his concern is _me_ , it’s misplaced.” Mycroft snapped. “It is none of his business.”

She shrugged. “He cares, Mycroft.”

“It is not his business.” He snarled.

Anthea frowned through a defeated sigh. “All right.” She said. “I’ll tell him.” She returned to the hall and he heard her open the door. Mycroft leaned back in his chair and saw a slip of a Belgian sky-blue jacket. He ducked lower in the chair, hiding himself.

“Greg…” 

“He’s here, isn’t he? Please, I just need to see him.” Greg pleaded. “I just need to see that he’s ok.”

“How’s Fleur?” Anthea asked. The mention of Greg’s girlfriend caused a flare of unease within Mycroft’s gut.

There was a long pause — Mycroft began to wonder if Greg would answer at all. But then he heard a sigh. “Yeah... right. Good. She’s good.” 

Mycroft had never heard anything less convincing.

“You’d best save your worry for her.” Anthea said pointedly. 

“I just want to know that he’s ok.” Greg protested. “Please, Anthea.”

“Mycroft is very private.” Anthea told him firmly. “Just go. Leave him alone.”

“But…”

“Leave him alone, Greg. That is _all_ he asks of you.”

There was silence after that, a taut silence that stretched out. Mycroft found himself counting the seconds. Had Greg left? Why didn’t Anthea come back into the room?

Eventually she did, the door creaking softly, the lock engaging. He listened to her pad back into the room and settle into a chair. When he opened his eyes, they were cold.

\---

Mycroft spent Friday riding indoors, his bike set up on his turbo trainer in his hotel room. He wanted to keep his legs and back from tightening up in a response to the crash, if he could. After a long, slow warm-up, he managed two sets of the intervals he’d hoped to do the day before. Over all, he felt good despite the throbbing in his jaw. His upper lip was comically swollen but his airways were clear and breathing was not a problem. Physically, he was as close to his peak as possible — there was no reason not to have a good race on Sunday.

Saturday morning found Mycroft much stiffer and sorer than he had been the day before. That was often the way of it, the day after was not so bad, but the day after that was terrible. He spent extra time meditating, emptying his mind of unhealthy thoughts, emptying his heart of pesky emotions.

He stretched extensively and took a hot shower. Mycroft wanted to watch the day’s racing — John Watson was racing at 1 p.m. But he intended to get there early to see the Junior women — one could learn a lot about a course by watching others race it. 

At 7:30 a.m., he took his ‘cross bike out for an easy ride through the forest. It was cold and wet — it had rained overnight and it dripped from the trees onto Mycroft’s helmet and shoulders — but he needed to loosen his tight muscles. After a half hour, his legs felt good and even his jaw had stopped throbbing. He rode for a full two hours before going back to the hotel to change and eat a second breakfast.

Watson was there, looking distracted. “Holmes… hey.”

“Are you ready for your race?”

Shrugging, Watson began to pull on one of his racing gloves. His British National Team skinsuit looked brand new, the white pristine on his compact form. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Going to start warming up soon.”

Mycroft squeezed the younger man’s shoulder. “You’ve been doing well in the elites.” He told Watson. “Only a few of the other U23 men have been racing elites and they haven’t been anywhere near the front.”

Watson sucked in a breath. “Yeah… thanks, yeah.”

“Good luck.”

Loes Van Poppel was in the first row of the Junior Women’s field, looking dangerous despite her braces and slight build. The Dutch had a deep women’s team in every age group, so Mycroft was not surprised to see her go into the first corner in second place, following one of her young countrywomen.

A light, fretful rain was falling. Mycroft had his down shell snapped up under his heavy, wool overcoat, his hat pulled low over his brow, Hot Hands* activated in his pockets, fleece-lined wellies on his feet and a hooded rain poncho over it all — he needed to avoid getting a chill. Anything he could do to keep himself healthy and well before his race was worth doing.

He, Anthea and Alun found a place sheltered from the wind where they could see the jumbotron. The camera was on the front of the race where the two Dutch women were running up a short climb, followed by a Belgian and an Italian. The women’s fields were more international, with Italians, Spaniards, British, American, Australian and French riders in the top ten, not just Dutch and Belgians with a few errant jerseys like Mycroft’s in the men’s field.

The Belgian girl pulled ahead on the run-up and Loes went around her teammate to chase. They got a gap and an American and a stocky Italian girl were chasing, the orange jersey of Loes’ teammate sitting easily behind them. If Loes and the Belgian were caught, the other Dutch woman would attack.

Mycroft watched it play out. The Dutch team’s tactics were textbook — and they had the strength to carry it through. The Elite Women would race that afternoon — last year the ‘orange armada’ had swept the podium — but Lucinda Vanthourenhout leading the Belgian squad would not make it easy for them to have their own way. There were a few other potential spoilers — notably a strong Australian and a brilliant Serbian — but they would be isolated early in the race. None of their few teammates would be on the pointy end — and the Dutch could wear them down with relentless attacks. If the Belgians worked together, they had a chance.

In the Junior Women, Loes sacrificed herself, sitting on the stocky Italian whilst another of her countrywomen rampaged off the front and ultimately won. The Dutch girl easily took second, beating the Italian handily in the sprint. 

After the race, the crowd milled towards the food and beer stalls, and Mycroft and his crew went back to the hotel for lunch. Eating with the facial injuries was interesting — he had taken to cutting all his food into small pieces, the softer the better. His teeth might be unaffected but his jaw was not enjoying chewing. Anthea made him an extra protein shake, and he drank it down with his rice cakes, split pea soup, eggs and fruit.

The rain had stopped by the time they returned to the course to watch the Men’s U23 race — John Watson’s race — but the wind had picked up. The course had softened and blurred but wasn’t as muddy as one might expect. It would still be a fast course.

Watson was called up to the line fourth and took a central spot in the front row. The camera zoomed in on him and his face was three metres tall on the Jumbotron. Fire burned in his stormy eyes and his jaw set with purpose — for once he wasn’t unobtrusive in the least. Mycroft could see that he was _in the zone_ , completely focussed on his race.

Disaster struck immediately, one of the top Belgians failed to clip into his pedals properly and crashed himself on the tarmac, taking out two thirds of the peloton, including Watson. By the time the young Brit was up and had untangled his bike, he was in thirty-eighth position — not where anyone had expected him to be.

Mycroft found a spot near the start/finish where he could both see the jumbotron and watch the racers as they flew by. He wanted to encourage Watson, if he could.

The jumbotron showed the diminutive racer overtaking riders at a frantic pace, taking every opportunity to improve his position. But the five men lucky enough to be at the front were working together to make as large a gap as possible. They were all from different countries — if any country had had two racers in the group, the rest would not have worked with them. They would have had too much of an advantage. But with one Dutchman, one Belgian, a Canadian, a Pole and a Swiss, they were all — in theory — evenly matched. 

By the time they came through the start/finish to begin the second lap, Watson had caught and passed everyone but the front five. However, they had thirty seconds on him and were driving hard.

The Pole cracked in the fourth lap, unable to keep up the gruelling pace. Watson overtook him and Mycroft could see how much that helped his state of mind — especially as he still had plenty of power to blow by the man. He’d pulled ten seconds back on the front group, enough to be able to see them towards the end of the start/finish straight as he entered it.

Seeing his quarry made a difference. With renewed vigour, Watson chased. The Belgian made a mistake and fell off the group and Watson reeled him in. He sat on the man for half a lap, resting, then they worked together to pull back another ten seconds and the Canadian rider.

As they entered the penultimate lap, Watson sprinted up to the Pole. The crowd was screaming — Watson was making the race even more thrilling than usual. 

“Upshift, idiot! You have the power!” Mycroft started when he heard the voice — a voice as familiar as his own. He examined the people around him, searching…

Sherlock stood on the opposite side of the course, his dark, unruly curls whipping in the wind. Their eyes locked on to each other and Mycroft lost track of the racing. His brother looked well — strong and fit and ready for his race in the morning. His eyes widened when he saw Mycroft’s bandaged chin and swollen lip, and he scowled. With one eyebrow, Mycroft conveyed that he was perfectly fine and Sherlock should not worry. The boy nodded, but his features did not lighten. 

Anderson spotted Mycroft then and he and another one of the muscular behemoths hired to mind the boy moved him off into the crowd, out of Mycroft’s sight. He hoped his brother would be allowed to watch the end of the race.

Watson and the Swiss had caught up to the Dutchman and the three of them were playing silly buggers — all slowing down and urging the other two to work, none willing to expend that extra bit of energy they’d need to win. As a result, the Canadian had eyes on them, was working hard to catch back on, and the Belgian wasn’t far behind him.

In the start/finish as they got the bell announcing the last lap, The Canadian tagged onto the group. Watson took the front, but they were all still looking at each other. He waited until after the run-up and attacked on the off-camber. The Canadian was gapped immediately and the Dutchman’s bike slipped out from under him — the crash holding up the Swiss.

Watson rode like a bear was chasing him, like his heels were on fire and extended the gap to fifteen seconds almost immediately. He did not let up. Mycroft watched the jumbotron raptly, as Watson made his bid for the win, for the World Championship Jersey. The camera zoomed in on his face, he was beetroot red and froth clung to his chin. 

The Dutchman was strong — he’d dropped the Swiss was beginning to reel Watson in. To win the Brit needed to keep up the intensity _and_ ride the course perfectly. Mycroft found himself holding his breath — something he’d only ever done for Sherlock’s races — willing the man to dig deep, to find that extra bit of energy…

Watson’s crash in the opening minute and long chase up to the front was beginning to tell — but he was almost there! He flew onto the pavement with the Dutchman chasing two bike lengths behind and managed an ugly sprint — _and he did it_!

Lifting a triumphant arm in the air, Watson rode directly to a knot of people with Union Jacks on their coats and collapsed. Mycroft wended his way through the crowd to congratulate the Men’s U23 World Champion on an excellent win.

“Mycroft. Hey.”

Greg.

He had been walking towards Watson as well and their paths had merged. Mycroft eyed his ex-lover dispassionately — other than a brief rill of shock when he’d first heard Greg’s voice, he felt nothing. The sense of triumph raised his spirits.

“Yes?” Mycroft asked, eyebrows raised in expectation.

“I… how are you? That looks like it hurts.” Greg lifted his hand to touch Mycroft’s bruised cheek but thought better of it. He tucked his hands in his pockets.

“It’s nothing.” Mycroft informed him. At Greg’s sceptical look, he elaborated. “It won’t keep me from racing.”

Greg smiled. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

“If you’ll excuse me…” Mycroft gestured towards the group gathered around John Watson.

“Listen, I’m sorry about… about coming to your hotel.” Greg said softly. “I’d heard about the car, the crash. I was worried about you.”

“Needlessly.” Mycroft told him. 

“Could we… erm...” Greg sighed, visibly swallowing words and forming new ones. “I’m glad you’re ok.” He said, face shining earnestly.

The kindness in his eyes! The warmth!

“Thank you.” Mycroft said stiffly. The emptiness inside him was frosty, cold. He embraced it, felt it freeze all his softness into rock-hard ice. He pushed past the Belgian, moving again towards Watson in the winner’s circle. He marvelled at the lack of regret, lack of pain, lack of _longing_ for the man. 

There were still caverns, deep in the ice, containing a reservoir of feeling for Sherlock, and a smaller pond for Anthea. But the sentiment he’d had for Greg Lestrade, for Mummy, Father, Uncle Rudy and his former life, were frozen solid, leaving naught but emptiness. 

It was what Mycroft wanted, what he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * HotHands® Warmers are single use air-activated heat packs that provide everyday warmth and are ideal for keeping your body warm when the temperature gets cold. I have used them and Toasty Toes for riding in freezing weather. Very helpful. https://hothands.com
> 
> Unfortunately, drivers targeting cyclists happens sometimes. And pros and pro teams on training rides have been hit (accidentally and otherwise) with devastating results. Cycling is an incredibly dangerous sport, crashing is part of it, it happens to all racers. I personally have dislocated and broken a shoulder, knocked my front teeth out and torn open chin and knees more times than I can count. (Not in ’cross — I raced road and track as well. ‘Cross was the most fun. Road was the most dangerous.) Worse, two of my teammates died during races, one, in a race I was in, was hit by a car coming over a rise. No one’s fault... it was a horrible day. Wow... really got off on a tangent there. Suffice to say, none of the injuries in the fic are exaggeration.
> 
> ANYWAY... Greg wants to “talk” just as Mycroft has put his feelings on ice. Honestly, can’t blame Mycroft for saying, “Uh, no thanks.”


	19. WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS PT 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock races, Greg wants to ’talk.’

Lucinda Vanthourenthout won the Women’s Elite.

It wasn’t even close. She went out _hard_ from the line, got the hole shot and put some space between herself and the rest of the racers in the first lap. Space that she increased as she soloed all eight laps to take the jersey — similar to Mycroft’s victory in the Men’s U23 race last year. 

She absolutely glowed on the podium — and Thijs could not stop grinning, so happy was he for his wife. Mycroft attended what was supposed to be a small celebration Saturday evening in the Belgian’s hotel, which turned out to be pretty full-on. John Watson showed up with a party of his own and a case of beer to add to the bottles of Champagne.

Very cognisant that he was racing the next day, Mycroft congratulated Lucinda, had a sip of beer with Watson, and slipped out early.

“Ready for tomorrow, Slim?”

Greg Lestrade sat in the lobby, reclining in a wing chair near the fireplace. Despite his relaxed posture, his voice was challenging.

This was the Belgians’ hotel. Mycroft had expected to see Greg. “Of course.” Mycroft told him as he passed by. 

“Better be. I don’t want it to be too easy for me.”

Mycroft scoffed, turning back to scowl at the man. “Allow me to assuage your worries on that front.”

Greg sat up, his eyes keen. “Your face is looking better.”

Mycroft had given up bandaging his upper lip — it was healing well, and the gauze and tape was always in the way. Without, the black thread of his stitches stuck out like elephantine whiskers on his puffed-up lip. It was less swollen, but just as purple. He’d replaced the gauze on his chin with a neat bandage. He was aware that his face looked far from ‘better.’

“I’d hate for the injury to hold you back.” Greg said.

“A few cuts won’t keep me from taking the jersey off your shoulders.”

Greg barked a surprised laugh. “The cuts won’t. I will.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see.” He said and turned away, back towards the main exit.

He didn’t feel anything. Mycroft’s interior world was a tundra, vast and cold and empty. 

But it had been… _nice_ … to have a moment of… of what? Competitive camaraderie? _Friendship_? 

A fleeting moment of what they used to have together.

Mycroft became aware that he had stopped walking, that he stood stock still in the centre of the lobby. _Could_ he and Greg actually become friends again? He had valued the friendship… and now that he had banished the pesty sentiment… could Mycroft have it again? 

_No_. 

It was a slippery slope. He could not allow Greg a foot in the door. Sentiment would follow, slip through and overwhelm him. It was insidious.

But perhaps…

Mycroft turned around — and found Greg staring after him. He opened his mouth…

What he might have said, Mycroft did not know. It was mooted entirely when Fleur exited the lift. She made for Greg, her willowy form clad in a pale blue empire waist dress that clung loosely to her fecund belly. On her way to the fireplace, she turned her head to see at what Greg was looking. 

When she saw Mycroft, her smile slipped — then tightened and curdled like a rictus. Her eyes above this smile were small and mean and when she greeted Greg, his expression blanked completely. His personality seemingly erased, he stood, and she took his arm. They were the picture of physical perfection, both handsome and athletic — a quality breeding pair. The rigidity that accompanied them hinted at unhappiness, but few would see beyond the lovely surface they presented. 

For a moment, Mycroft was adrift… for a second, for a tiny fraction of a second, a grinding spike of pain took his breath, took _everything_. He was relieved when hatred eclipsed the pain. Mycroft hated her. He hated what she had done to him — whether she’d meant to or not.

But then Mycroft’s anchor caught in the ice and he found the empty tundra, drew it around himself like a cloak. It crystallised the hatred, tidying it neatly away. The bloom of pain froze and died. It withered and fell apart and a wind blew scattering the bits until it was as if it had never existed. 

Thus, when Greg looked back over his shoulder, his face a portrait of utter remorse, Mycroft felt nothing.

Leaving the hotel, the catalogue of unconscious deductions he’d made played like a black and white film, stuttering along at twice normal speed: Greg still wasn’t eating or sleeping well; he’d lost another pound; he was working diligently to please Fleur; he was failing. 

Fleur was healthy, vibrant in pregnancy — it did not steal her life force as it did for some women, rather it gave her a self-focussed importance. She loved the _idea_ of the child. Fleur had very specific ideas about what comprised a successful life, and a child was a significant part of that. A perfect child, a perfect wedding, a perfect house in the perfect neighbourhood, the perfect husband… 

She loathed what Mycroft represented — that Greg was soiled, imperfect, a poofter. Fleur would never again be able to see Greg as the idealised husband she craved, and for that she blamed Mycroft.

But she would never let go of Greg. Fleur would clutch and cling to the part of him she owned — his honour, his decency. Together they fit her conception of the perfect couple and that was enough for her.

In his hotel room, Mycroft paired his smartphone with the speaker and opened the app that played ocean sounds. Soon the room was full of the roaring. It soothed his tattered nerves and lay to rest the unwelcome insights into Greg and Fleur’s relationship.

|| MH || 21:51  
_Best of luck tomorrow, brother. I will be watching._

The response made him smile:

|| SH || 22:09  
_War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength.*_

\---

Sherlock was on the starting grid, pulling off his rain jacket and handing it to Father. Mycroft watched from his vantage point near the first corner. His brother had spotted him earlier and they’d exchanged solemn nods — Sherlock was clearly experiencing some anxiety about this race. That was only natural.

The rain had begun around midnight and had not let up. It had changed the course — Mycroft had ridden it earlier and the fast course from the day before was replaced with a technical course, boggy, slick and slow. Mycroft had returned to the hotel filthy, mud thrown up from his knobby tyres coating him from head to toe.

He would be surprised if Sherlock’s field got five laps in the thirty minutes allotted for their race.

Looking over the racers on the starting line, Mycroft could tell his brother was shivering. Hypothermia was a real danger today.

Greg Lestrade stood on the other side of the course, back a bit from the barrier, staring at the racers on the jumbotron. Mycroft had watched a few minutes ago as he had greeted the field of young racers and wished them luck. He’d patted Sherlock on the back, presumably giving him some last-minute advice.

Mycroft had been foolish yesterday, thinking for one second that he could be friends with the man. It was indicative that the _sentiment_ he’d banished into the ice was melting, leaking, drip-drip-dripping into the empty void inside. He had spent extra time meditating this morning, making certain there would be no more leaks. He was a fortress.

Thus, he felt nothing as he watched Father walk off the course with Sherlock’s jacket. He stood with Mummy where they ostentatiously turned their backs on Greg — they must have hated having to allow a _known pervert_ to speak to their precious child. Worse that said precious child, still clearly idolised the pervert.

Father bid Mummy goodbye and left her — for the bike pit, Mycroft assumed. Uncle Rudy must be there already with Anderson. One of the burly men they’d hired to keep Mycroft from approaching the family stayed with Mummy.

He looked miserable, cold and very wet despite the golfing umbrella he held. Unlike Mycroft — who was dry and toasty within his fleece-lined wellies and long, rubber rain poncho with the hood — the big guard had not anticipated this weather and was suffering for it. Shockingly bad form that Mummy hadn’t ensured his comfort. 

It wasn’t like her. Mummy micromanaged everything as a matter of course — it was her way of keeping her giant brain engaged. What did it mean that she was missing details?

The race began and Mycroft set aside the train of thought as his adrenaline began to flow. He willed Sherlock to get a good position — and he did, swooping into the first corner fourth! 

Good job that he had! The sixth rider took the corner too hot and his wheels slid out from under him in the mud. The racers after him piled up, completely blocking the corner, forcing most of the peloton to bunch up on the pavement. The smart riders were off their bikes, carrying them as they sought a way through the carnage. 

Anthea grabbed his arm and pointed towards the Jumbotron. Sherlock was third now — he’d passed a Serbian that wasn’t holding the wheel ahead well enough. Smart. That boy would be gapped soon, and Sherlock would not have to sprint to make up the lost ground.

He was with one of the Dutch youths that had come out of the crash on Thursday unscathed, and a strong Belgian lad. They were both eighteen and clearly weren’t taking fifteen-year-old Sherlock seriously. His brother could use that to his advantage, sitting on whilst the other two slugged at each other. 

Finally getting past the first corner, the race was one long line chasing Sherlock’s group. Notably, none of the Dutch or Belgian riders were on the front — they were all there, fourth through ninth place was a blur of orange and sky blue, sitting in. With a man each off the front, neither team would chase. That task had fallen to a Swiss young man and two Frenchmen. They were pushing hard but making little headway.

At the end of the first lap, Sherlock’s group had 27 seconds on the chase — and they’d dropped the Serbian. 

Not seeing the front three on the start/finish straight seemed to crush the group’s spirit. The chase continued but it lacked heart. By the end of the second lap, the gap was 52 seconds. When the group came through, it was clear they’d given up trying to catch the front three and were conserving energy to contend for the minor placings.

If the race continued in this fashion, Sherlock would be on the podium! Third would be a real coup for a fifteen-year-old.

In the third lap, the Belgian slipped on the treacherous run-up, and slid halfway down the hill on his belly before he managed to arrest his motion. The Dutch racer took advantage, working hard to keep the Belgian from catching up. Sherlock clung to the Dutchman’s wheel, holding on grimly.

Mycroft could see that it was costing him, just keeping up, but he could also see how determined his brother was. Any tiny mistake would gap him — and if Sherlock lost the Dutch racer’s wheel, he would be gapped immediately. He would have a hard time securing third place, despite the minute advantage over the chase group.

The two rode through the start/finish with ten seconds on the Belgian. The bell rang, signifying they were beginning the last lap — ten seconds could go either way. It depended on which racer could lay down big watts the longest. 

Anthea squeezed his hand as they stared at the jumbotron, watching Sherlock’s progress around the course. He made a mistake, sliding wildly on the off camber, but — as Mycroft held his breath and _willed_ his brother to succeed — somehow leapt off the falling bike, took two sliding steps through the corner to more stable ground, and remounted without losing the Dutch racer. It was brilliant!

When they swung onto the pavement of the finishing straight, Sherlock was still keeping pace with the orange-clad racer — and the Belgian was still eight seconds back! They sprinted, the three of them, charging for the line, Sherlock falling behind the Dutchman, the Belgian frantic to make up the lost time. 

In the end, Sherlock sprinted well enough to beat the big Belgian across the line for an excellent second place! Anthea grabbed him and they jumped up and down cheering aloud — Mycroft for once eschewing his natural (and Mummy-reinforced) reserve.

They watched from a distance as Father and Uncle Rudy helped Sherlock from his bike and congratulated him, grinning and patting him on the back.

Mycroft should be there with them.

John Watson appeared and pulled Sherlock into a big bear hug. Mycroft blinked in surprise — and blinked again that his brother not only allowed the hug but returned it! Mycroft could not recall ever feeling envy before.

His feet took him into the racers’ area, to the warming tent — but the burly bodyguard was there, glaring at him. Defeated, Mycroft turned away. 

_He should be able to congratulate his own brother!_ Especially after such a brilliant race.

He turned towards the hotel to change and warm up, composing a text that might convey his sincere congratulations. It felt hollow.

With icy discipline, Mycroft set all that aside. He needed to focus on his own race now.

\---

The British encampment at Worlds was bustling when Mycroft arrived. Alun had been there for a while and set up his bike on the turbo trainer — Mycroft was allotted the prime spot. The other British racers in the Men’s Elite field weren’t expected to crack the top thirty, and the two of them had taken over an out of the way corner of the tent. Mycroft greeted them politely, deftly avoiding getting caught up in a conversation about the weather. 

It was raining and it was bitterly cold. The less said the better.

He climbed on his bike as Anthea dug Mycroft’s iPods out of his gear bag. He started his warmup playlist and began pedalling, keeping his heartrate in active recovery zone — he’d ridden that morning, but with the cold, it was better to start slowly and warm up over time. Anthea put his water bottle and towel within reach, and after checking that Mycroft didn’t need anything else, wandered off to watch the Women’s U23 race.

“My...”

It was Greg.

Of course, it was Greg, resplendent in a Belgian blue jacket, the colours of the flag wrapped around his chest, replacing the rainbow rings that had graced his jersey all season. He wore black, thermal tights and trainers, his silver cap pulled over his ears. His breath steamed in the frigid air.

Mycroft clenched his jaw and immediately regretted it — it was still sore from his impact with the pavement. 

“Oi, Lestrade!” One of the other British racers hailed him. “Ready to race?”

As Greg waved and replied, Mycroft realised he could not rudely dismiss the man without creating gossip — he was already the topic of way too much of that. With a silent huff, he tapped an iPod, silencing his music. “Yes?”

“Hey...” Greg smiled warmly, and Mycroft read _change_ in his expression, _different_ in his demeanour. “I don’t want to interrupt your warmup.”

“And yet.”

“Yeah, ok.” Greg’s eyes crinkled with humour. “I heard they caught the driver. The one that caused this.” He gestured at Mycroft’s battered face.

“Yes.” Mycroft replied shortly. “Inebriated, not malicious, I’m told. He’s been charged.”

“I’d hate to think anyone would be malicious enough to run a bunch of Juniors off the road.”

Mycroft shrugged. “If one has an antipathy for cyclists, the kit and the racing bikes anonymise the riders. They aren’t targeting Juniors they’re targeting the sport. They’re targeting all cyclists on the road.”

“I guess. I feel bad for Van Anrooij… he’s still in hospital?” 

Mycroft nodded, confused as to why Greg had felt the need to interrupt his warmup for _this_ , but pleased that he could go back to his music, go back to focussing on final preparations for the biggest race of the year.

“My… can we talk? I really need to talk to you.”

Mycroft felt both his eyebrows hit his hairline. “Now?” 

“No, after. Tonight.” Greg was more relaxed, that was part of the difference. And confident. Too confident.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Anger welled, the ice inside him burning. “No.” He decided. “I have nothing to say to you.”

He saw that the words stung, but Greg endeavoured to hide it. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something you’ll want to hear.”

“I _want_ to be left alone.” Mycroft kept his voice pitched too low for the other men in the tent to hear. 

“My, this is important.”

“Apologies, I’m not available.” He lifted his hand to tap his iPod, to restart the music, but Greg caught his wrist and held it… touching the place where the thin strip of leather had sat. “ _I miss you so much._ ”

“Mycroft, please.”

Staring daggers, Mycroft jerked his arm from Greg’s grasp. “Don’t do that.” He hissed. He could not think about the gift Greg had given him, about the sentimental inscription stamped on the inside of the bracelet. He _could not_!

“Sorry… sorry, I didn’t mean…” Greg looked upset now, the relaxed confidence replaced by tension. “Just give me ten minutes, My. Just ten minutes. Don’t make me beg.”

“I can’t…” Mycroft was interrupted by a rush of cold air as someone lifted the canvas on the back of the tent, separating it from the tarpaulin that covered the bare earth, and shimmied underneath. “What…?”

Piercing silver-blue eyes looked around wildly, focussing on Mycroft. Sherlock looked as if he’d fallen in the mud, one side of his trousers coated, in addition to his knees and elbows. There was even mud on his woollen cap.

“Brother!” The startled exclamation fell from Mycroft’s lips and Greg Lestrade was forgotten. 

Sherlock grinned. “Knew I could shake them.” He muttered.

“To what do I owe the honour?” Mycroft asked, collecting himself. He had climbed off his bike without conscious thought and now his hands squeezed his brother’s shoulders, proving that he was real, that he was really here. “Or did you simply want to prove you could outsmart your keepers?”

Sherlock scoffed, but his grin didn’t fade. “Your face looks appalling, Mycroft.”

“Yes, thank you. I hadn’t noticed.”

“Mummy is furious at the driver.” Sherlock told him. “It’s killing her that she can’t ring the _polizei_ and demand they resurrect the death penalty for him.”

Mycroft frowned. “You’re mistaken, I’m sure.”

“I’m not.” Sherlock insisted, leaning in. “I’ve caught her muttering over her phone four separate times since Thursday evening. We both know that look she gets when one of us is injured — she looks like that… but frustrated.”

He did indeed know that expression, a combination of helplessness and steely determination that spurred their mother to attempt to control every aspect of their recovery. Her caring ministrations were as relentless as her desire for justice — she’d never actually shouted at a racer that caused a crash in which Mycroft was injured, but it had been a close thing more than once. Only her overly developed sense of propriety had stopped her.

The overwhelming sense of grief Mycroft experienced at the memories shocked him — he’d never thought he’d miss that particular facet of his mother’s personality.

“At least I’m spared that humiliation.” Mycroft murmured. 

His brother’s quizzical look told him that he had read Mycroft’s true feelings. With a sniff, Sherlock dismissed the sentiment summarily. “Where are you living?”

Grateful for the change of subject, Mycroft cleared his throat — and cleared his mind of the unwanted emotion. “Antwerp. A flat in Zurenborg.”

“Alone?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock nodded, drinking in Mycroft’s appearance, deducing what he could. “You miss me.”

“A terrible character flaw of mine.”

“As long as you know it.” Sherlock’s smirk faltered. “I can’t stand it at home, Mycroft. They watch me all the time — and it’s boring! I can’t do anything!”

It was what Mycroft had feared — Sherlock had never tolerated Mummy’s micromanaging well. Mycroft had deflected as much as he could from his brother... but now Sherlock was the sole focus.

“Three years, brother.” Mycroft said, knowing how little it would help. “Only three years and you can do what you like.”

“Six years.” Sherlock retorted. “Until I’m twenty-one and truly independent.”

“I thought you didn’t care about money, brother.” Mycroft couldn’t resist needling Sherlock — money meant nothing to him as long as he had everything he wanted.

Sherlock glowered. “I won’t last three years.”

“You will. You must.”

Sherlock scoffed and frowned — but Mycroft watched as he decided a strop would accomplish nothing but waste the short time they had together. Ultimately, Sherlock’s expression settled on bemusement. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” He asked.

“For second place?” Mycroft tutted. “Come now, Sherlock, that’s hardly worth the breath.”

His brother rewarded him with a snigger. “Are you friends again?”

“What?” Mycroft almost never lost the plot of a conversation — especially not with his brother! 

“Lestrade. He was here.” Sherlock squinted hard at Mycroft, absorbing the changes in his body language, the train of micro-expression travelling across his damaged face. “No, you’re not… why was he here then?”

“I don’t know.” Mycroft had not even been aware that Greg had left.

Sherlock scoffed, disbelieving. 

“I don’t _want_ to know.” Mycroft explained stridently. “I don’t need to know.”

“But how…” He huffed with frustration. “You can turn it off. I don’t know how... I can’t turn it off.”

The deductions. The noise. Sherlock would have extrapolated what Greg intended to say. Mycroft had firmly chosen not to do so. _He did not want to know._ “You can.” Mycroft told him. “Remember what I taught you.”

“It’s _impossible_ Mycroft! It’s all _right there_! All the time.” Sherlock waved his hands in front of his eyes.

“Have you tried…”

“Sherlock!” Cried a pinched voice. Both brothers swung towards the sound.

It was Phillip Anderson, mobile stuck to his ear, looking muddier even than Sherlock, followed by a burly tree-trunk of a man whose small eyes landed on Mycroft and stuck.

“Busted.” Sherlock mumbled, rolling his eyes. 

“Christ, Sherlock, we’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Anderson snapped. “What are you doing with _him_?!”

“None of your business.” Sherlock snotted.

The tree trunk pushed his way between the brothers, keeping belligerent eyes on Mycroft. 

“Is this strictly necessary?” Mycroft asked him.

“Mrs. Holmes says you don’t talk to him.” He meant it to sound threatening, but to Mycroft it revealed the man’s limited intelligence and imagination. He heard Sherlock’s impatient snort and knew his brother was well acquainted with the man’s shortcomings.

“Don’t threaten Mycroft, Rocco.” Sherlock said. “He’s the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet.”

“Him?”

“Don’t confuse the poor man, Sherlock.” Mycroft chided. 

Sherlock’s scoff was epic. “He’s perpetually confused.”

“Your mother is on her way.” Anderson interjected, holding up his mobile

“You idiot!” Sherlock bellowed. He exchanged an apologetic look with Mycroft and darted past Anderson, disappearing through the tent flap.

“For fuck’s sake!” Anderson ran after him. “Sherlock!”

Rocco eyed Mycroft for a handful of seconds, clearly trying to work out how the painfully skinny, effete, ginger cyclist was dangerous. Eventually he shook his head, clearing it of thought, and left the British tent.

Mycroft returned to his warmup — he had to hurry now, the time before his race was dwindling. He restarted his music and began ramping up the intensity. He’d do several hard efforts, simulating race pace, before the race began. Ideally his legs would be warm and ready.

He had begun the first interval when the tent flap was swept dramatically aside. Mummy stood in the opening, eyeing Mycroft. Disdain dripped from her expression.

Mycroft met her gaze briefly, then returned his attention to his workout. It was a long enough look to read her ambivalence: she _was_ upset about his injuries and seeing them first-hand made her long to cluck over him, pepper him with questions and instructions. Care for his injuries with mother’s hands.

But she was also furious that Sherlock had come to him, that they had spoken. She considered her elder son _at best_ to be an inappropriate influence on her younger son, and fiercely wanted to protect the younger from the elder’s noxious influence. Her mind was strategizing new ways to ensure they stayed apart.

This was all wrapped within a tenacious desire for Mycroft to win today — a desire that clung to her, despite her strenuous attempts not to care. She would watch his race. 

Sherlock too would watch. Mycroft knew he would evade his minders until the end of the Men’s Elite race. 

Father would watch. Uncle Rudy would watch.

Though he could not suss the reason, that made Mycroft happy.

With a theatrical flourish, Mummy left the tent.

\----

Greg Lestrade, last year’s winner, was called to the line first.

Five minutes before, Greg Lestrade had wedged his bike next to Mycroft’s and touched his arm. “Hey.” He said. 

Mycroft didn’t answer. The chill emptiness inside him was an impenetrable fortress. He kept his mind on the imminent race.

“Good luck.” Greg said. 

“You too.” Mycroft answered by rote.

“I was happy to see Sherlock got to you. You must miss him.”

Mycroft glanced at him, anger flashing. Why couldn’t the man mind his own business?!

Greg shuffled his feet, abashed. “Listen… I _need_ to talk to you.”

 _Now_?! Why was Greg bringing this up _now_? Mycroft gifted him a look of pure aggravation. “ _No_.”

“Please, My… there’s something...” Greg whispered in his ear. “Something big.”

Mycroft flinched at the feel of breath on his neck. “Focus on the race.” He snapped.

“But after… I’ll find you.”

With a huff, Mycroft turned to look at the other man, to challenge him with his eyes. “No.” He repeated. “There. Is. No. Point.”

“You‘ve changed. You’re... locked down. Closed. It’s not good. I’m worried about you, My...”

“I assure you that I am _fine_!” Mycroft’s voice was as frosty as the air. “They’re calling your name.”

“Oh…OH!” Greg pushed off and rode to the line, taking the spot dead in the centre.

Thijs Vanthourenhout, last year’s runner up, was called second. His left knee was lavishly strapped with orange athletic tape, and it looked a bit swollen to Mycroft’s eye — he had not emerged from the incident with the car unscathed. That was unfortunate. Mycroft would much rather race with stitches in his face than pain in his knee.

As for his own injuries, the ridiculous swelling that had made his upper lip protrude like a cartoon character was gone, but his chin was still sore, a hard egg where he’d impacted the pavement distorting the shape. The bruising was lavish — one cheek was green with magenta accents around the eye, blood trapped beneath the skin had turned the territory under his nose dark purple, and irregular blots of maroon marched up his jaw. There was an errant spot of blue on his forehead.

He’d cleaned the wound on his chin that morning and carefully shaved around it and the tear on his lip — Mycroft could not abide having a fuzzy face. He’d stopped himself from trimming the coarse threads sticking out from his stitches — it would make them difficult for the doctor to remove. He simply had to live with the unsightly black knots (like spiders on his lip) for a few more days.

He’d found a waterproof bandage for his chin, in the hope that it would keep the mud off during the race. 

He thought the effort was likely in vain. The rain had stopped halfway through the women’s U23 race, but the course was mud from start to finish. The two earlier races had carved deep grooves into the spongy earth — grooves one had to hit perfectly or risk crashing. He’d been able to ride the course twice after the Women’s U23 race ended, and it was even more hazardous than it had been that morning.

Shivering, Mycroft answered his call up, rolling to an open spot next to Thijs and exchanging a tense nod. The cameras all zoomed into his bruised visage and he could hear the commentators exclaiming in several languages. He bore the attention stoically.

Anthea took his coat, and the cold took Mycroft’s breath away. He shuddered and resisted the impulse to wrap his arms around himself. The sky was so overcast that the afternoon light resembled dusk and a steady, freezing wind blew across the starting line. The huge crowds were huddled in coats and warm hats and under shared blankets. The umbrellas had disappeared, but there were still plenty of rain ponchos.

The cameramen were pulled back and a race official gave them final instructions. Mycroft could hear the announcer counting down, but he kept his eyes on the row of lights as they turned red, one-by-one. It seemed to take an eternity… then abruptly they all turned green and Mycroft sprinted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength.” are slogans espoused by Big Brother in George Orwell’s book 1984.
> 
> Hey, thanks for all the comments! I don’t say it enough — getting them always makes me smile. 
> 
> Next week: RACE!


	20. WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS PT 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elite men race.

Mycroft’s lungs burned — the cold air as painful inside as out. He was still shivering, still wet and chilled, but it was all forgotten as he sprinted off the starting line. 

It was a mad dash, every racer desperate to get the best place possible before the first corner. Other riders jostled him, elbows knocking his own as Mycroft fought to pull himself ahead of the mob. The pavement was wet, and mud had been tracked over it in the earlier races making it slipperier than it looked. The racer next to him fishtailed and he fell into Mycroft — he felt the wild vibration where their shoulders pressed together. Mycroft pushed out, pushed the other rider off of him — he recognised Marcel Meisen and somehow, with the help of Mycroft’s push, the German righted himself. Disaster averted.

Then they were swinging into the corner — it was sharp, and the mud was thick. It hindered the racers, causing the riders behind to have to slow and bunch up. Mycroft was near the front, sticking close to the racer ahead of him.

Quickly they approached the first short uphill. Mycroft dismounted and ran it — he’d been able to ride up in practice, but the crowd of racers made that impossible. He counted eight riders ahead of him as he remounted at the top and plunged down the descent.

There were ten of these short, slippery, three-metre up-and-downs, and they wore on the legs. A glance over his shoulder as he remounted atop number seven showed him that small gaps were already opening up. As long as gaps didn’t open in front of him, Mycroft was content being ninth in line. For now. Everyone was in peak condition for this race, everyone was excited and dreaming of glory — it would take a few laps for them to wear out. Then the race would really begin.

There were ruts carved into the descents. The racer third in line missed the rut on the last little descent, one that curved wickedly. He wiped out spectacularly, his wheels simply sliding sideways and dumping him on the ground. He slid under the vinyl barrier, into the surprised crowd.

Rider number four — Dieter Wurst in Belgian blue — had to dodge slightly but was otherwise unhindered. The race continued full-on, Wurst closing the small gap between himself and the second rider.

They flowed into the series of 180s, a long, sinuous line of racers. Doubling back gave Mycroft a look at who was ahead and behind him. A Dutch racer was first, followed by three Belgians — Wurst and Lestrade the latter two. Vanthourenhout was behind him, then a racer that Mycroft didn’t recognise. He was in a lurid starred and striped red, white and blue kit. American then. Mycroft recalled hearing that one of the Americans was a road racer that had decided to try his hand at ‘cross. The man would be strong, but whether or not he had the skills to contend in a cyclocross was an open question. 

Next was a French rider, another Dutchman and then Mycroft. Meisen was directly behind him, he discovered, and an Australian behind him. Another Frenchman had let a gap open between himself and the Australian. 

After the third 180, the course widened into a long, curving power sector. Mycroft considered attempting to improve his position, but everyone in front of him was solid, so he didn’t bother.

The path twisted around on itself and took them to the base of a flyover. Mycroft dismounted smoothly and ran up the steps, bike hoisted on his shoulder. Unlike other flyovers he’d raced, the descent wasn’t immediate — the steps led to a fifteen-metre bridge at right angles to the stair. Leaping onto his bike, he rode full tilt staying close to the wheel ahead of him.

The ramp was narrower than usual, and it dropped them into a boggy field. The rain and the earlier racing had formed a muddy wallow at the bottom, and they ploughed through it, spewing muddy water from their tyres. Mycroft emerged wet to the waist.

The mud was heavy riding, sucking energy from his legs as efficiently as cobblestones. Mycroft found a thin lip of grass at the edge of the path that was more solid than the mushy middle. It allowed him to overtake the Dutch racer (a fellow called Jetse Van Der Poole who’d been racing the men’s elites for fifteen years) as they approached the planks. 

The Dutch racer in the lead hopped the barriers gracefully. The Belgian behind him attempted to do the same, but the slick, soggy ground took him down as he attempted to land between the planks. Wurst, Lestrade, Vanthourenhout et al dismounted without missing a beat and ran over the barriers — and around the recovering Belgian.

By keeping as far to the right as possible, Mycroft kept his wheels on the grassy lip, the relatively firm ground, allowing him to ride over the barriers. He found himself slotting in front of the American road racer as they flogged their bikes through what had been a power sector and was now ankle-deep mud. The brown spray from the puddles, coated Mycroft’s legs and spattered his torso and helmet.

The American wanted to pass him, but with the forest just ahead, Mycroft fought to keep his position. He was glad of it — in the woods the course narrowed significantly, taking them over boulders and between trees. Captain America fell back, lacking the skill to ride the technical single track as fast as the cyclocross specialists. By the time they reached the lip of the plunging descent, he had disappeared behind the twisty corners.

Mycroft was ambivalent about riding over the edge — it was a fast downhill with a tree in the centre of the course roughly halfway down. The line to the left of the tree was quicker, but the line on the right was safer. Or that had been true on the dry course. Now that it was wet, running down the hill might very well be both faster and safer. 

The Dutchman rode over the edge and Wurst, Greg, and Vanthourenhout followed him — all three took the right line that gave them a wider entrance into a 90-degree corner that kept the course from running directly into a thicket of trees. Mycroft dismounted and stepped over the edge, sliding down the left line dragging his bike after. He slipped through the mud, more than ran, but he arrived at the bottom very quickly and was on the bike and pedalling as Greg entered the corner — it put him in front of Vanthourenhout.

Out of the forest, the course widened significantly as it took them onto a deceptively steep hill. Wurst stood up on his pedals to muscle up it and immediately his rear wheel spun out in the mud. Greg moved right and Mycroft dodged left, shifting into an easier gear. He also stood up, pulling on his bars to offset the force on his pedals, but he kept his weight back, over the rear tyre. Thus, he passed Wurst and the Dutchman as they laboured up the knoll.

That was how Mycroft ended up on Greg’s wheel as they arrived at the infamous run-up. He navigated the twists to the bottom — the twists that negated any momentum that might push a racer partway up — and smoothly swung his right leg back over his saddle, passed it between his left leg and the bike as he rode the pedal, coasting until the very last moment. Then he stepped through, twisting the heel of his left foot to release it from the pedal, as his right foot hit the ground in the first step of a dead run. 

Instead of carrying his bike, Mycroft pushed it, using it as a third point of balance as he picked his way painstakingly up the wall of mud. It was slippery and so difficult to find footing — it took forever to scramble up. Instead of allowing himself to grow frustrated, Mycroft reminded himself that if it were hard for him, it was just as hard for everyone else. It would take everyone time to make their way up. 

So, when he finally reached the top and leapt back into the saddle, Mycroft was cheered to see he was still directly behind Greg, whilst orange and blue kits had fallen back a metre. The American, French and Australian racers laboured behind them as a steady stream of riders arrived at the bottom and began to climb. 

They _looked_ close, but it took so long to scale the wet, slippery grade, that really, they were not. They may even have been losing time.

Mycroft rode onto the off camber, directly behind Greg, Wurst and Vanthourenhout a bike length behind. There were three ruts carved into the side of the hill, all bloody treacherous. The top line was, in Mycroft’s opinion, the most stable. He fit his wheel into the rut, but three pedal strokes in, the wheels slipped out from under him. He scrambled to his feet and ran, dragging the bike along. Before the end of the off camber, all four were running and Mycroft didn’t lose his position.

Greg led down the descent. It was an extremely _exciting_ descent, steep, curving and slippery. Mycroft held onto his bike as he went down, barely in control, and splashed through a puddle that reached the axles of his wheels. Three corners to bleed off some speed and Mycroft followed Greg into the bike pit. 

Alun had a clean bike ready, holding it out for Mycroft to grab as he let go the muddy bike — which was caught by a mechanic that worked for the British National Team.

The fresh bike felt good. They rode back into the mud to the bottom of a ramp — it was built onto the flyover, creating what amounted to a second lane going the other direction, but with a ramp instead of stairs. Up the ramp, left turn onto the bridge, down the ramp on the other side and around to the start/finish.

Mycroft and Greg burst onto the pavement together, followed closely by Wurst and Vanthourenhout. He vaguely registered the screaming crowd lining the course as he noted the time — 8:47. It had taken them close to nine minutes to race one lap. Definitely a slow course! They would only have seven laps — six if they slowed over the next couple laps.

Two Dutch, the American, French and Australian racers and Marcel Meisen joined them as they arced into the first corner, Wurst sprinting to the front to ease Greg’s way, the rest of them reordering. Mycroft found himself behind Vanthourenhout and the American.

Wurst, Greg and Vanthourenhout rode up the first three-metre hill, but the American didn’t quite make it — he had to put a foot on the ground and push himself the last bit to the top, forcing Mycroft off his bike. 

Mycroft swore, slotting his tyre into the rut on the descent. He wanted to get around the American. The road racer had a killer sprint but was clearly not used to the demands of a cyclocross course. He’d done well in the dash for the first corner, and his brute strength kept him in the top ten going into the second lap, but he didn’t have the technical skills to stay in the front group for the entire race.

If being trapped behind Captain America weren’t bad enough, Thijs Vanthorenhout must have been having trouble with his knee — he was allowing Wurst and Greg a bike length’s gap. Mycroft could not allow the two Belgians to get away from him! 

He could not get around the other riders until the course widened. Thus, Mycroft bided his time, keeping a very close eye on the Belgians’ progress. 

At the top of the tenth hill, the American rider had to put his feet on the ground and flail yet again. There was more room at the top and Mycroft was able to duck past him and slide neatly onto Vanthourenhout’s wheel. The three of them dropped down the last short descent and flew into the 180s. Counting the seconds from when Wurst entered the first corner to when Vanthourenhout entered, Mycroft learned that the Belgians had eight seconds! 

Mycroft stood on his pedals and tried to get around Thijs but could not before the second corner. They rode ‘round it together, the American directly behind, Mycroft on the longer, outside line. He wanted to pass Vanthourenthout before the third corner — and just about managed it. He was a wheel ahead as they swung through the third 180.

The long curving power section followed. Mycroft put himself solidly in front of Vanthourenhout and began chasing the Belgians... abruptly Captain America rode past him. Mycroft grabbed the road racer’s wheel and let him ferry Mycroft across the gap.

He wasn’t thrilled to be behind the American again — his skill deficit would mean he’d be gapped over and over — but Mycroft had got around him twice, he could do it again. It was enough to be back at the front of the race.

The four of them clambered up the flyover, their hard, cycling shoes pounding on the wooden steps. 

Mounting his bike at the top, Mycroft crowded the American as they rode across the bridge. The man blocked him, moving close to the rail on the side Mycroft wanted to pass, forcing Mycroft back. It was smooth, a polished move from a practiced racer.

Down the ramp back through the sloppy mud puddle, more filth coating Mycroft. The momentum from the descent was arrested by the boggy ground and they picked their way through the mush and puddles to the planks. 

Mycroft repeated his trick of riding at the very edge of the course, keeping his wheels on relatively firm ground, and hopping his bike over the barriers. 

Captain America didn’t even attempt it, dismounting and running in the slop. Mycroft passed him easily, slotting in behind Lestrade as the man leapt back upon his bike.

It was Mycroft’s turn to block the American as they rode through the soul-sucking bog. The deep mud coated their tyres and built up on their drive trains and brakes, slowing their progress. He stuck out his elbows as the American pulled up beside him and fought for Greg Lestrade’s wheel — Mycroft refused to budge as the heavier rider leaned into him. He could not allow the American to ride into the single track ahead of him, not if Mycroft wanted to win the rainbow jersey. And he wanted that jersey!

The American was tenacious, trying to force Mycroft to drop back. Mycroft used all his strength to hold his line as the other racer pushed his shoulder into Mycroft. It was a bit of a dirty trick — not strictly allowed — but rubbing is racing, as they say. Mycroft gritted his teeth and bore it and when they turned into the trees, the American had to drop behind Mycroft 

He felt triumphant, adrenaline coursing through his veins — it had been a hard fight, the hardest Mycroft had ever had forced upon him. He concentrated on Greg’s wheel, staying close through the twisty course, over boulders, back and forth around the fauna. As he reached the cliffside plunge, Mycroft glanced back — to find that Captain America had again dropped out of sight. His triumph grew.

Mycroft dismounted gracefully and ran — less gracefully — down the soggy hillside, remounting at the corner, tagging back onto Greg’s wheel.

This time as they left the forest and began to climb the steep knoll, Wurst had perfect balance as he stood up to force his pedals around. Mycroft was not obliged to dodge, rather, with a burst of speed, he passed Wurst and Lestrade — putting the two riders between himself and the janky American. He was finished tangling with that menace.

Thus, Mycroft led the race to the gruelling run-up. It was daunting — so steep and wet and slippery. The indentations from the feet of earlier racers had collapsed, obscuring the path to the top. He had to jam his feet into the spongy earth, like a climber would embed his pickaxe in a mountainside. Mud oozed around Mycroft’s feet and sucked at his shoes — that would be a setback, losing a shoe in the muck! He would have to ride without to the bike pit and there pause to don another — the lost time would surely put him back behind the blasted American!

Happily, Mycroft reached the top with both shoes on his feet. Lestrade was with him, but Wurst had again lost ground. The American, Vanthourenhout, Meisen, and a number of others were on the climb or arriving at the bottom, beginning the uphill slog.

Mycroft didn’t bother climbing on his bike this time until he’d run across the off camber and arrived at the top of the descent. It was a terrifying drop, clinging to his bike, weight back, knees and elbows absorbing the shocks, balancing by the skin of his teeth — but at least it was fast.

Once again, he rode into the pit for a clean bike. Alun shouted encouragement as Mycroft leapt into the saddle of the new bike and resumed pedalling.

He and Greg powered up the ramp, over the bridge and down, Wurst chasing, and around onto the pavement. 

The start/finish with its solid tarmac, was often where the race regrouped. Mycroft looked at Greg, indicating that he should take over the lead — and Greg looked around for Wurst, who caught up and immediately went to the front. Vanthourenhout, Meisen, the American, another Belgian and the Australian joined Mycroft’s group as well. He was relieved to have three racers between himself and the American.

And Mycroft was glad to see Vanthourenhout rally — he’d hate for anyone to lose their biggest race of the season due to injury. Thijs was an excellent racer and a kind man, Mycroft wanted him to succeed. He fully intended to beat the other man, but not because of his injury — if he didn’t prevail over the best his competition could offer, it would be an empty victory.

The eight of them stayed together through the first half of the course, only gapping the last three on the narrow, forest path. Mycroft again ran down the technical descent with the tree in the centre, remounting ahead of the third Belgian. He didn’t challenge on the knoll but had to ride around Vanthourenhout when he slowed. 

Mycroft stepped off his bike and started the uphill slog in third place. With Wurst ahead of them, he and Greg were slowed to the domestique’s* pace, and the three of them ran the off camber together.

Disaster struck on the downhill. As Mycroft surfed the delicate balance between muscling his bike where he wanted it to go and allowing gravity and the terrain to take its natural course, Wurst lost control, going wide — too wide. He tried to brake, just a feather touch to retard his velocity, but it was enough to send him flying over his handlebars. As Mycroft whizzed past, the Belgian flipped, his feet higher than his head on his way to the ground. He didn’t see the landing — he had passed and could not look back without crashing himself. 

Greg continued without slowing, leading Mycroft through the several corners to the bike pit. They both took clean bikes — they would be best served taking a fresh bike every lap — and powered out of the pit and back onto the course. 

As they rode the flyover, Mycroft felt a gust pushing him. The wind had picked up, and it had grown even darker, the course illuminated by the few electric lights set up to aid the television cameras. On the pavement, the first few drops of rain began to fall. A big, cold drip fell on his neck and rolled down his back, making him shudder.

The entire fourth lap, the rain threatened — falling fretfully, then stopping, as if the weather could not decide. But the wind only grew stronger, howling across the open fields. The forest was the only shelter.

On the run-up, Mycroft could see where the racers behind them stood. Marcel Meisen was riding his best race ever in third, followed by Vanthourenhout and Captain America. They were far enough back that Mycroft did not think they would catch up — only if something happened to significantly slow him and Greg. No, Greg was his competition. He had to work out a way to drop the big Belgian. If it came down to a sprint, Mycroft didn’t like his chances.

As they went through the start/finish to begin the fifth lap, Mycroft confirmed that they would ride seven altogether — he had three laps, roughly twenty-five minutes, in which to find a way to beat Greg Lestrade.

If Greg made a mistake, Mycroft would capitalise on it.

His legs felt the up and downs, lactic acid building up in his quads and aching by the ninth short climb. But Mycroft still felt strong and energetic and it was easy to ignore the discomfort. Less easy to ignore was the sleeting rain that was beginning to fall in earnest. It was cold, and the slush would only make the course more dangerous.

Down the tenth descent, the two best ‘cross racers in the world flew into the series of 180-degree corners. Mycroft was content at this point, to sit behind Greg, let him set the pace. It was possible he would wear himself out. Not probable, but possible.

The chasers were nowhere in sight. Greg laid down some real power on the long, curving lead into the flyover. It felt good to ride so hard! They clambered up the stairs and across the bridge then flew down the ramp and splashed through the puddles onto the wet, boggy ground.

It was leg-crushing, powering through the mud. With the icy sleet, Mycroft did not attempt to ride over the planks, he dismounted smoothly and ran over, Greg only half a metre ahead.

On the power straight towards the woods, Mycroft passed Greg, wanting to test his legs on the single track. He rode it fast, faster than any other lap, leaping off his bike and practically falling over the edge of the cliff. He kept his feet under him as he slid down the incline, pulling his bike along. Greg decided to run this time as well, and they mounted almost at the same moment and drove on towards the steep, little knoll.

This was the real reason Mycroft had wanted the lead into the forest — he put in a massive dig up the leg-crushing hill _and gapped Greg Lestrade_! He kept the gap — a good two bike lengths to the foot of the run-up.

Mycroft thought he could widen the gap between them on the hill... but the sleet was building up on top of the sucking mud, making it slicker than ever. Mycroft found himself practically crawling up, using his feet and knees and free hand. It seemed to take _forever_ to reach the top!

He was wet through, water dripping off his hair and helmet, running down his face and dripping from his chin. Ice built up around his collar and melted sending rivulets of chill water down his chest and back. Mycroft was working hard, his torso a furnace radiating heat… but it didn’t quite reach his fingers or toes. Encasing his feet in the mud, the cold crept into his shoes. 

When he finally, _finally_ reached the top, his brief glance back showed him that he had maintained the gap over Greg! His Belgian blue jersey was black with mud, only showing its colours where the icy rain had washed the filth away.

Other riders toiled lower down, one slipping and sliding two metres backwards on his belly. Mycroft shuddered as he ran the off camber — half from the cold, half from the horror of sliding back down that hill and having to climb it twice!

He lost his footing as he approached the descent, landing one knee on the icy mush, but recovering quickly. He barely lost momentum at all. And then he was back in the saddle, clinging to his bars for dear life as he plunged down the hill.

In the bike pit, Alun shouted, “ _Six seconds_!” as he grabbed the freshly cleaned bike. Only six seconds on Lestrade! Mycroft had hoped for at least ten.

Greg chased him up the ramp and across the flyover — the wind was brutal up there, Mycroft had to lean his weight into it — and down again.

In the start/finish, Greg caught up to him. He touched Mycroft’s hip as he pulled alongside, his hand lingering longer than the ‘I’m here, don’t swerve into me’ gesture needed.

“We need to talk.” Greg said, loudly enough to be heard over the wind. “After the race.”

Mycroft could not believe Greg was bringing that up now! He glared at the other man, annoyed further at his earnestness. Instead of answering, Mycroft sprinted away.

The corner was slick with sleet and Mycroft’s rear wheel slid sideways, sending an extra jolt of adrenaline crackling under his skin. Instinctively, he shifted his weight, keeping the bicycle upright and ploughing into the corner, his heart stuttering. The sleet fell directly in his face, a thousand needles biting.

Anger took him over the steep little up-and downs, without feeling it. He swooped down the last and into the 180s, only then noticing Greg on his wheel. 

In the curving power sector, Greg spoke again, riding level and shouting to be heard. “Mycroft! Ten minutes! That’s all, give me ten minutes.”

“No!” Mycroft hissed, refusing to look at him.

“Then I’ll let you win.” Greg shouted.

Mycroft sneered. They were off their bikes, running up the stairs together, Mycroft grinding his teeth with rage. It tasted bitter and he wanted to spit it out. The wind at the top tore whatever words they may have spoken from their lips, dispersing it. But down the ramp, slogging through the boggy mud, Greg pulled up beside him. “I’ll let you win.” He said again. “I won’t challenge. I’ll follow you across the line.”

“You won’t.” Mycroft retorted.

“I will!”

Mycroft did not believe him — but the very idea made him even more furious! Wearing the rainbow jersey to every race, knowing Greg had _allowed_ him to have it, knowing he hadn’t _earned_ it. It would be the ultimate slap in the face! 

He cursed Greg Lestrade, barely remembering to dismount in time to run over the planks. Back on their saddles, riding abreast towards the forest, Greg just smiled.

Anger-fuelled, Mycroft spun away, entering the woods at top speed. It made him sloppy and he had to dab a foot at the first boulder. That calmed him, the ice inside him freezing his fury into a cold, controlled burn. He navigated the single-track single-mindedly, thinking only of leaving that bastard behind.

Down the wooded cliffside, his shoes shedding mud as he clipped back into his pedals, to the steep knoll. Mycroft gunned it up the knoll and through the arcing corners that took him to the run-up. 

There he found Greg beside him still, puffing rhythmically as they sloppily scaled the spongy hill. Mycroft was again forced to try to grab hold, coming away with handfuls of icy mud. He slipped and Greg arrested his slide with a hand wrapped round his thigh — it was an intimate touch that threw Mycroft into a moment (could it be only a month ago?!) when Greg had held his thighs tenderly...

Mycroft flinched away. “Don’t!” He cried. He scrambled away, up the hill, making a meal of it, making a mess. At the top, he saw that Marcel Meisen, Vanthourenhout and the American were together now, at the bottom of the run-up. 

“Look what you’ve done!” He snarled at Lestrade.

But Greg just smiled and gestured that Mycroft should take the lead.

Gritting his teeth against the wind and pounding rain, against the overwhelming desire to drop his bike and slug Greg Lestrade’s smirking face, Mycroft ran the off camber. Miraculously he did not slip on the nasty combination of ice, water and mud that coated the angled ground.

He barely remembered the descent, finding himself in the pit, taking a clean bike from a cheering Alun. 

Lestrade slowed, dallying behind Mycroft.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!?” Mycroft screamed, as they fought the wind and boggy loam to the flyover ramp.

“Say you’ll listen to me.” Greg shouted back his head close to Mycroft’s. “Say you’ll meet with me tonight — and I’ll race.”

The ramp was too narrow for them to ride abreast. Mycroft relished the howling wind that tore at him as they rode the bridge atop. Its violence equalled his rage.

Mycroft attacked as they swooped down the ramp. Greg would race! He _wouldn’t_ just throw it away! He _couldn’t_!

On the pavement, Mycroft looked back to find Greg keeping pace. He swerved away to force Greg to take the lead, but Greg just swerved with him, both slowing, staring at each other.

“Race!” Mycroft cried. “Race!”

“Meet with me.” Greg said. “Give me your word.”

Mycroft wanted to scream wordless rage, shout abuse, kick and push and punch. He panted with the effort of holding it in, disbelief and betrayal mingling with the frigid anger.

And then! Then, because Greg had been playing silly buggers and Mycroft had allowed it! Because he was a stupid fool who had once allowed himself the fantasy that he’d fallen in love! Then Vanthourenhout, Meisen and bloody Captain America joined them!

The bell rang, signalling that this was the last lap.

“Give me your word.” Was all that Greg said.

The thought of _the American_ winning the Cyclocross World Championships — of him even standing on the podium! — was unbearable. Unthinkable! Mycroft’s fury, flared and froze, purified by the incredible injustice of the situation in which he found himself. 

If Greg wanted ten minutes, he would get ten bloody minutes! Ten bloody minutes of the coldest, angriest silence he’d _ever_ have the bad fortune to experience! Mycroft would make it crystal clear to him what a monumental mistake it was to blackmail Mycroft Holmes!

“Fine!” Mycroft spat at him.

“Yes?” Greg looked surprised. How could Mycroft have ever liked this oaf!?

“Yes!”

“You promise? Tonight?”

“I give you my word.” Mycroft said, deathly, coldly calm.

Greg grinned — but it looked tired. “Ok then. Let’s do this!”

The Belgian sprinted, clipping past Meisen as he led into the corner. Mycroft found himself last in line as they approached the first little ride-up.

Being trapped behind the American really was intolerable — he was gapped over and over. Not for lack of strength, like a zombie, the bloody American dragged himself back into contact over and over. It was supremely irritating, being held up then having to sprint only to do it again. 

Mycroft passed Captain America in the 180s, allowing a largish gap to open between them, then sprinting hard. With the head of steam he built, he breezed past the man, slipping in behind Vanthourenhout in the corner.

He passed both Vanthourenhout and Meisen in the power section, beating both of them to the stairs.

By then, Greg had left all of them behind, rampaging off the front. Mycroft chased.

The wind at the top of the flyover gusted and blew him into the rail. He hip checked it, pressing against it as he rode, using it to stay upright. It was solid, or he would have gone over the edge, fallen the five metres to the ground. 

Down the ramp, Mycroft returned to the narrow lip at the very edge of the path. It had only gotten muddier in the rain, but he could feel that it was solid under his wheels. Despite the dangerous conditions, he needed to hop his bike over the planks, instead of running, if he wanted to catch up to Greg.

This was the last lap of the World Championships! Waves of urgency assaulted him. He was going to _murder_ Greg when this race was over! Greg should not have slowed down! He should not have played ridiculous mind games with Mycroft!

With 100 percent effort, Mycroft closed the gap to Greg — and rode past him! 

He entered the forest in first place. It had become so dark in the trees, Mycroft could barely see the trail, but the wind let up and the driving, sleeting rain didn’t sting his exposed skin. 

It was quieter — Mycroft could hear his sodden socks squishing in his shoes with every pedal stroke. He heard his own heartbeat, his breath, and beyond that, Greg shifting gears. He rode the single track as fast as he could in the poor conditions, taking all sorts of chances. He was relieved there was a big light shining on the cliff edge — Mycroft had been afraid he’d go over before he saw it coming.

Riding out of the trees, the ferocity of the rain shocked him, and the wind stole the breath from his lungs. Somehow Mycroft’s legs kept turning the pedals until he reconnoitred. This was his last chance! He attacked up the steep knoll, finding a reserve of strength he hadn’t known he possessed, and managed to distance Greg!

Mycroft tore up the course, trying desperately to capitalise on the advantage. Fuck Greg Lestrade! Fuck him and his stupid insistence that they _talk_! He didn’t _deserve_ to win this jersey!

Abruptly, the run-up loomed in front of him and Mycroft dismounted. He began the arduous climb, keeping his feet fast and his breath even. Perhaps the heavy rain had diluted the mud somewhat, it felt easier this time. At the top, he still had an advantage!

Mycroft sprinted the off camber, losing his balance and sliding down from the top rut to the bottom, dragging his bike along — but without losing more than a second. He leapt on his bike and pointed it over the edge of the descent. He clung to it, his knees gripping the top tube, praying he stayed upright. 

There were fewer lights in the twists leading towards the bike pit, the dark and rain all-encompassing. Mycroft looked longingly at the lights over the pit, wanting a fresh bike. But the rain had cleared the mud from this one and the finish line was _so close_! Mycroft rode past the pit entrance, standing up on his pedals to build speed through the swampy section leading to the flyover.

He had a chance! Mycroft had a real chance to _win the jersey_!

The wind on the flyover _howled_ , trying to toss him about. HE muscled his way across and then Mycroft was shooting down the ramp, squinting at the needle-like sleet abrading his face. He shifted gears and discovered that his wet gloves were frozen, and he could barely feel his fingers.

He was _so close_!

The tarmac was firm under his wheels, the finish line lit brightly. The crowd pushed in on both sides — Mycroft registered the roar of the cheers. He sprinted towards the line!

Greg Lestrade sprinted past him, flinging his arms in the air as he reached the finish first.

Mycroft was half a wheel behind. 

He deflated, the disappointment absolutely crushing. 

Someone grabbed his bike and he bowed his head over his handlebars, hiding his disappointment from the flashing cameras that appeared all around him. 

Abruptly Mycroft became aware that he was _freezing_! He wrapped his arms around his torso tightly — he was wet through, shuddering uncontrollably. 

Someone grabbed him as he slumped from his bike and began to fall. There was shouting and then Anthea appeared. Mycroft tried to reach out to her, but he was lifted and carried awkwardly across the road and up a short flight of stairs into a trailer.

It was warm in the trailer. Mycroft was deposited on a metal folding chair where he sat shivering. The heat actually _hurt_ as it touched his frozen cheeks. His hands and feet began to throb.

Anthea was there, wrapping a towel around his shoulders and unclipping his helmet. She pulled it off and he felt exposed and unhappy.

He heard his name, but Mycroft didn’t care. He hunched under the towel, shivering helplessly.

—-

“Mycroft Holmes, that was an absolutely horrific race!” It was the same commentator that had interviewed Mycroft at the British Nationals. “The skies opened and and dropped an utterly _Biblical_ flood on you.”

In dry clothes, clutching a big mug of hot tea, Mycroft had almost stopped shivering. Still, he could not suppress a smirk at the florid language.

“That’s not even hyperbole.” The man insisted. “I’ve never seen a race go on in such atrocious conditions. Did you think the officials should have suspended the race?”

Mycroft blinked. “Er... no. That never crossed my mind.” It hadn’t.

The interviewer chuckled. “No? That wasn’t what you and Greg Lestrade were arguing about out there?”

“The weather? No, not at all.”

“What was it about then? It looked to be a rather intense conversation.”

Belatedly, Mycroft realised he should have agreed with the man that it was the weather. He’d been borderline hypothermic after the race and his brain still wasn’t working properly. 

“I’ve actually never seen a mid-race conversation in cyclocross.” The man continued. “It’s usually full-on. But you gents had a break and a chat. Looked like you were on a coffee ride.”

What could he possibly say?

“Lestrade was... I don’t know... just talking. Trying to get under my skin.”

The commentator’s eyebrows flew up. “Well, I wouldn’t say it worked — you looked phenomenal out there!”

“Thank you.”

“You know, Lestrade’s always seemed an amiable guy… well, I guess it’s different in a race.”

“It was… more of a joke.” Mycroft had no idea why he felt compelled to defend Greg. “It was nothing... just ill-timed.”

The interviewer looked puzzled but knew when not to pry. “Okay, well it almost backfired on him — it came down to the last metre.”

“Yes.” Mycroft tried not to sound sour.

“Now, apologies because I imagine you’ve been asked questions about this non-stop, but your facial injuries look painful — were they a factor in today’s race?”

Mycroft’s hand flew to the bandage on his chin. It was fresh, applied by Anthea after the hot shower he’d been afforded in the warming trailer. “Not at all.” He said honestly. “It’s unsightly, but I don’t think of it at all.” A smile pulled at the stitches in his lip. “Until I’m confronted with a mirror.”

The commentator laughed easily, his amusement warm and friendly. “Could be worse, eh?”

“Indeed. Better my face than a knee.”

“Right, unlucky for Vanthourenhout.” The man winced empathetically. “He was injured in the same incident, was he not — a rogue car that ploughed into the Dutch team on Thursday.”

“Yes.” Normally Mycroft would allow the single syllable to end the subject... but this particular interviewer had been nothing but kind and helpful, jumping in with expressive torrents of words that made Mycroft look good to the television viewers. Instead of being put off by his polite, distant demeanour, this man had taken pains to show Mycroft in a flattering light. “I often ride with the Vanthourenhouts. They are... friends. It’s unfortunate that the crash robbed Thijs of a place on the podium.” Marcel Meisen — to Mycroft’s delight — had beaten the agressive American to the line for third place, Thijs following in fifth, hobbled by the knee.

“The culprit is in custody, I understand, but that’s not much comfort to the injured. I’m glad it wasn’t a factor in your race.”

“No. No one to blame but myself.” Mycroft found his lips curving upward again.

“Ah, it’s disappointing to come so close, innit, but it was a ripping race, Mycroft. Well-fought! I can’t remember one quite so exciting. Congratulations on a very strong finish.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s always next year.”

Mycroft agreed and then blessedly, he was released.

Or so he thought. As he shuffled towards the exit — the sleet had morphed into a wet, heavy snow — the interviewer finished his on-air back-and-forth with his compatriots and walked toward him with purpose.

“Mycroft, hey.”

Mycroft plastered a politely expectant expression onto his face. “Yes.”

The man touched his arm, his big hand wrapping loosely around Mycroft’s triceps. It was warm even through the layers piled on his thin frame. 

“I understand you’re thinking of signing with a pro-tour team. You’ll be racing road this season?”

“That is the plan, yes.”

The commentator pressed a card into Mycroft’s hand. “I would love to do a more in-depth interview sometime — you’re the most exciting British rider coming up right now.”

“That’s very flattering. I’ll run it by my agent.” She would want him to do it — the publicity would help him get lucrative endorsement contracts.

“I know you’ve had a bit of a hard time these last few weeks. It’s great to see you doing so well.” The man appeared to be sincerely happy for Mycroft.

“Thank you.”

“Listen…” He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “I don’t know how open you’re willing to be… but if you wanted to talk about your sexuality, I think it would be brilliant.”

What?!

Clearly, since his scene at the Amstel dinner table, the word had gotten out — and gone farther than Mycroft had expected in so short a time.

The commentator must have read the horror on Mycroft’s face. “It’s entirely up to you — I would never say anything without your permission.” He smiled but it looked sanguine, almost bitter. “Having been outed against my will myself, I would never do that to someone else.”

He was gay? Mycroft would not have clocked it. But then he hadn’t realised Greg was bisexual until it, quite literally, smacked him in the face.

The man laughed. “You’re surprised. If you ever want to get together…get a coffee, maybe, talk… off the record, of course.” He winked at Mycroft. “You have my number.” His eyes sparkled and he squeezed Mycroft’s arm before nodding and turning away.

Had he just…? Had he been _flirting_? Had he just suggested a… a _date_?! With Mycroft!? Mycroft with his ugly bruises and stitches? Skinny as as a rail, pale, ginger and off-puttingly formal?! Was he serious!?

Mycroft looked at the card. _Rupert Yates_. 

He was older — mid-thirties — but Mycroft had to admit that Rupert was not unattractive.

\---

Mycroft had never been happier to see Marcel Meisen — as they waited for the podium ceremony to begin, he was trapped with Greg and the German. Greg was almost puppyish in his excitement.

“My!” He grinned, gripping Mycroft’s shoulder. The contact was the first time they’d touched since they’d broken up. It shocked him, that Greg could be so casual. Mycroft pulled away, but he could still feel the heavy warmth of Greg’s hand pressing on his skin. “You look better! Wasn’t sure you’d be up for the podium.”

The hypothermia had almost sidelined Mycroft. If the trailer hadn’t been equipped with a hot shower, he _would_ have had to sit out the ceremony.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft glared balefully at the man, allowing several seconds to tick past uncomfortably. “I’m fine.” He said finally.

“You’re mad.” Greg caught on belatedly. “Don’t be mad at me. It’s good news, I promise.”

“I don’t enjoy being blackmailed.”

“It wasn’t —”

“Holmes!” Marcel Meisen interrupted. “Lestrade!” He wrapped an arm around each of them. “Come, the race is over! We are all friends now.”

Mycroft congratulated the man in German — third was an excellent finish for him, better than he’d done all season — and they chatted amiably until their names were called to step onto the stage.

Greg’s playful mood evaporated. His eyes followed Mycroft. 

After the ceremony, Greg cornered him. “You promised.” He said, tension bunching the muscles in his jaw and shoulders. “Tonight.”

“Under duress.” Mycroft retorted.

“You gave your word.” Greg insisted.

Mycroft wanted to refuse. He wanted to slug Greg Lestrade’s stupid, handsome face and walk away. But it was clear that Greg would not let this go — he would badger Mycroft relentlessly until he gave in.

“Ten minutes.” He said grudgingly. 

Greg smiled — it was gorgeous and hopeful. 

“Not now.” Mycroft said. They were surrounded by people and cameras.

“When?” Greg pressed. “Tonight — you’re coming to the party?” The Belgians were throwing another party at their hotel, celebrating both Greg’s and Lucinda’s wins. Mycroft had not intended to go.

He inclined his head affirmatively. 

“Nineteen hundred, then? It won’t be kicking off yet. We can find a private room.”

“Nineteen hundred.” Mycroft agreed sourly.

Greg smiled — relief, happiness, hope all wrapped up together, easing the tension in his jaw. “I’ll see you then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Domestique: In road bicycle racing, a domestique is a rider who works for the benefit of his or her team and leader, rather than trying to win the race. In French, domestique translates as "servant". The use of the term dates back to 1911, although such riders had existed before then.
> 
> Next week: THE TALK. We’ll finally find out Greg’s ‘good news’ — that has him seeming happier than he’s been since the breakup.
> 
> Thank you all for the comments! I know I owe some answers, but I’ve been using every spare minute writing these chapters.
> 
> Actual bike racing started again this week! I watched Vuelta a Burgos Every morning and today was the women’s and men’s Strade Bianchi — a brutal one-day race held on white gravel roads in Tuscany. The men’s race was won by a young cyclocross star! Great to see him excelling on the road!


	21. DUBENDORF

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Belgians throw a big party for their winners — and Mycroft finally listens to what Greg wants to tell him.

Mycroft had fussed over his hair for thirty minutes, attempting to tame the unruly ginger curls. He wasn’t certain why he bothered — with the scabbed over black stitches and the dark purple splotches disfiguring his upper lip, the blue bruises shadowing his jaw, and the bandage taped over the wound on his still-swollen chin, no one would notice his hair. 

After the podium ceremony, Mycroft had completing the doping controls, and returned to the hotel with Anthea and Alun. They’d eaten together in Anthea’s room, then she’d massaged Mycroft’s legs and back until he was all but asleep on the table. 

He’d returned to his own room to nap, the soothing, static of the ocean filling the space around him, in him. 

When he woke, Mycroft meditated, retreating to the tundra he kept in his heart, building up the icy walls. He was not looking forward to the party — the _talk_ with Greg even less — and fortified his defenses accordingly.

He was determined to keep the icy control over his emotions, no matter what happened with Greg.

Mycroft dressed carefully, choosing the bespoke trousers that showed the length of his legs and flattered his arse. He wished he had a full suit — waistcoat, tie, jacket, pocket watch — a sort of armour to protect him.

But he did not. Instead he layered a green cashmere jumper over a grey merino wool shirt, both colours that suited his complexion and eyes. 

He examined himself in the full-length mirror — the well-cut clothing disguised his severe thinness, making him look taut and tall, the copper in his hair shone, and he had colour on his pale cheeks. The wounds and discolouration distracted from his beaky nose and weak chin. No one would mistake him for handsome, but they’d be forgiving.

Satisfied, Mycroft donned his heavy glen plaid overcoat, buttoning it up all the way and cinching the belt tightly around his narrow waist. Black wingtips with a bright blue stripe around the sole finished the look. 

He stowed his black watch cap and a couple packets of Hot Hands in the pockets — the temperature had dropped further as the sun set. He’d been chilled for hours after the race and hated the weak, vulnerable feeling it gave him. He did not want to feel that way again.

Anthea nodded approvingly when she saw him — she looked dazzling in a little black dress and heels, the collar of her white vicuña coat framing her lovely face. She would easily be the belle of the party.

Alun wore jeans and his grease-stained puffer coat, as always.

The three of them took a cab to the Belgians’ hotel, Mycroft sinking into the comfort of being flanked by his people. It was unfortunate he couldn’t have them with him whilst Greg _talked_. 

Mummy and Father and the rest of his family, he was certain, would not be at tonight’s party — they would have left directly after his race. Mummy would not risk Sherlock running off to see Mycroft a second time.

They arrived late — at half eight. After his kip, Mycroft had asked Anthea to text Greg and inform him of the change in schedule. He did not ask her about his reply and she — always adept at reading him — did not volunteer the information. Mycroft would keep his word and meet with the man, he would have to be satisfied.

Belgian cycling, anticipating high finishes from their riders — and at least one rainbow jersey — had sprung for a nicer hotel this year and booked the ballroom for tonight’s celebration. For a group of people who went to bed early every night, adhered to strict diets and drank almost nothing, they’d arranged a lavishly catered affair with a full bar and a DJ. The mechanics and soigneurs had been looking forward to it all week.

The lobby was abuzz with overspill from the festivities — racers of all ages and genders, coaches, team representatives, officials, the aforementioned soigneurs and mechanics, cycling press, agents, proud parents, and everyone’s plus one milling about drinking champagne and talking animatedly. Mycroft spotted a famous road racer — a man who had won all three grand tours _and_ Paris-Roubaix* forty something years prior — and felt a rill of hero-worship run down his spine.

Hugo Charpentier, head coach of Amstel, noticed Mycroft as soon as he walked in and excused himself from his group. “Holmes!” He exclaimed, taking Mycroft’s hand in both of his. “Brilliant race today! Congratulations!”

“Thank you.” Mycroft murmured. Anthea took his coat and she and Alun disappeared into the coat check.

“I hoped I’d see you here. Thibault’s around somewhere.” Hugo waved a hand. “You’ve had a chance to look over the contract?”

“Indeed, I have. Hasn’t my agent contacted you?” Mycroft asked politely. Right now, he could not be less interested in contracts and pro teams and struggled to focus his attention on the man. He wanted to search for Greg, get the ridiculous _talk_ over with.

“She has, she has.” He patted Mycroft’s hand. “I’m sure we can work out all the details.”

“I hope so, sir. I enjoyed the few days I spent with the team.”

“Good!” Hugo smiled and tugged Mycroft further into the room. “There’s a few people you should meet.”

A mind-numbing half hour followed, speaking with strangers in various stages of inebriation. Mycroft endured several rounds of: “So close! I really thought you had it!” and “Such an exciting race! I was on the edge of my seat the whole time!” And “You and Lestrade are so well-matched! It could have gone either way!”

None of which made losing by fifteen centimetres any more bearable. Mycroft could imagine what Mummy would say — he had to bite his tongue to keep it from spewing from his own mouth.

He was rescued, finally, by Rupert Yates of all people.

The commentator pushed his way into the group and Mycroft’s heart sank — he would never get away with the professional talker here. But Rupert smiled winningly and said, “Have you been keeping Holmes captive out here?” He winked brashly at Mycroft. “Mycroft, have you even set foot into the ballroom? It’s wondrous, I tell you.”

“Rupert! Guilty as charged.” Hugo laughed and there was a round of introductions — unnecessary as everyone already seemed to know the gregarious commentator.

Before he knew it, Mycroft was whisked away — Rupert Yates’ hand planted firmly on the small of his back — into the ballroom. It was dimmer in the big room, and a pulsing beat from the DJ booth overlay every other sound. There was dancing and a buffet and three bars.

“Not exactly wondrous.” Rupert said in Mycroft’s ear, his breath tickling. “But I watched them monopolise you for fifteen bloody minutes — had to do something before you gnawed your own leg off. D’ya fancy a drink?”

Mycroft blinked, feeling slightly dazed. He hadn’t said a word yet and the man’s hand was still on his back, just above his bum. Mycroft decided it was not unpleasant. “Why not.” He said.

“That’s the spirit.” They waded into the mob around the nearest bar, Rupert somehow clearing the way with the force of his personality. 

“Club soda.” Mycroft told the bartender.

“Club soda!” Rupert protested. “That’s hardly celebratory. Give him champagne.”

“Not champagne.” Mycroft said quickly. Rupert looked at him questioningly. “Never champagne.” He said with a small shudder. “On the podium... the smell... the stickiness...” He had been sprayed with enough champagne to last a lifetime.

“Fair enough.” Rupert chuckled. “But we can’t toast your stellar performance today with water. What’s your pleasure? Lager? Whisky? A nice Chimay, perhaps?”

Mycroft felt the tug of his stitches as he smiled — but for once it did not make him self-conscious. Rupert was... invested. He had rescued Mycroft from the never-ending introductions and was trying to make him feel comfortable. The attention was... heady.

He turned to the bartender, stifling the chiding voice in his head (that sounded suspiciously like Mummy). “Gin and tonic.” He said.

“And a Guinness.” Rupert added, shoving a handful of Swiss francs in her tip jar.

“I never drink alcohol.” Mycroft said as they watched her pour gin. Mummy would have had a cow if she’d caught him drinking. Alcohol hindered performance, making body and mind sluggish.

“Never? Beer is full of carbohydrate. I’ve been told it’s an excellent recovery drink.”

Mycroft scoffed. “No serious athlete uses beer for recovery.”

“The blokes on my Sunday club ride swear by it.”

“I stand corrected.” Mycroft laughed. 

“They’re very serious athletes.” Rupert claimed with a winning smile.

“Yatesy!” A big blonde fellow slapped Rupert’s back. 

“Gazzer! Hey!” Rupert grinned. “I haven’t seen you in an age!” The two men hugged briefly. “Is Cath here?”

“No, she’s back home in Bristol.”

“Too bad.” Rupert said. “Have you met Mycroft Holmes?”

“Holmes.” Mycroft allowed the big man to pump his hand up and down. “Good show today — if it hadn’t been for that wind, I think you would have had it.”

“The wind?”

“Oh yeah. Lestrade outweighs you by a stone** at least, it didn’t blow him about so much. Even so, you almost had him.”

“Gaz has the great good luck to be married to Cath Boyles.” Rupert said. “Britain’s winningest ‘cross racer.”

“Oh yes, she hasn’t been racing...”

“No, she’s up the duff.”*** Gazzer told him. “If all goes to plan — knock wood — she’ll be racing again in September.”

“You’re here without her?” Mycroft asked.

“I write for Velonews. I have a great write-up on your race — I’d love a quote...”

“Let him alone, Gaz.” Rupert said. “Talk to Lestrade. Ah, our drinks.” He handed Mycroft his cocktail. 

“Lestrade is being uncharacteristically reticent.” Gazzer grumbled. “He’s usually a quote machine. Say, what were you and Lestrade arguing about in the race?”

“The weather.” Mycroft said. 

Rupert shot him a curious look — Mycroft had denied it was the weather in their live interview just a few hours earlier. “Hey, Gaz, catch up with you later.” He said, guiding Mycroft away almost before Gazzer could answer.

Rupert took them to the corner farthest from the DJ and his booming speakers. Mycroft leaned against the wall and surveyed the crowd. He wondered how long before Rupert made his excuses and moved on — he was surprised he hadn’t stayed to chat with Gazzer. Mycroft supposed it simply showed how badly he wanted the extended interview. 

Regardless, Mycroft had to admit, he was enjoying the company.

Mycroft’s gin was pleasantly astringent, and he sipped it as they chatted. It went quickly to his head, smoothing over his awkwardnesses, loosening the muscles in his legs and arms. It was... pleasant.

Rupert had to lean in to be heard over the din of the music. He pressed his elbow to the wall by Mycroft’s head and his face was so close. It was intimate and warm, and Rupert smiled at him often.

“Did you race?” Mycroft asked him.

“I did, yeah. Quite badly.” Rupert laughed. “Still do occasionally — if the master’s field is especially pathetic, I can usually keep up.”

Mycroft smiled, suspecting he was better than he’d admit. “Road? ‘Cross?”

“Both. And track. I went to Junior Track Worlds a few years running when I was about your brother’s age. I scored a couple medals and thought I was the next Eddy Merckx.****” Rupert chuckled at the memory. 

“What happened?” Mycroft asked.

Rupert sighed. “I lack Eddy Merckx’ physiology. Then I found out me mates were doping… that was it for me. I got out.”

“Doping? Were you on a pro team?”

“God, no — I begged my way into a development program, thought if I worked hard enough…” Rupert sighed. “That’s where the doping starts, when you’re on the cusp of levelling up.” He eyed Mycroft. “Not something you’ve come up against?”

“Goodness no. My grandfather died partially because of amphetamines — that was the drug du jour when he raced. My family — my uncle was my coach, you know — kept us far away from it. That was why Mummy decided to form Team Holmes, they could control who had access to my brother and I.”

“That sounds like a double-edged sword.” Rupert blurted. “Sorry, I don’t mean to offend.”

“No, you are correct. My mother is nothing if not controlling.”

Rupert regarded Mycroft for a moment. “It must be strange, if you don’t mind me saying so, being on your own.”

Mycroft looked away, his eyes scanning the dim room, seeing nothing. Finally he turned back to Rupert. “How did you get into commentating?” He asked pointedly.

Rupert pursed his lips and nodded, visibly shifting his thoughts and accepting the change of subject. “Incredible luck, mostly.” He said. “I was nineteen and at loose ends. I knew everything about bike racing — and absolutely nothing about anything else. Still don’t for that matter. 

“Me Dad’s club team put on an annual race and that year they put me to work. I did a bit of everything — course building, permits, volunteer-wrangling‚ everything that didn’t require any sort of skill. On the day, someone handed me a blowhorn and told me to get the first race started… turns out I liked the sound of my own voice quite a lot.” He laughed. “Didn’t put that blowhorn down all day. Decided right then what I wanted to do.

“Got myself into a broadcasting program at the college and started calling all the local races. Did that for a few years — probably still be doing that, working at me dad’s laundrette, living with three flatmates.” Rupert laughed. “Then Lady Luck intervened. Sommat put a video on YouTube of a massive crash in a race I was calling. I was sending tapes to every sport broadcaster I could think of, and when I finally got a call back, it was because of that video. It was I-TV asking me to audition to call Ride London. I’ve worked for I-TV Sports ever since.” He grinned. “Still waiting for someone to notice my complete lack of competence and boot me out.”

Mycroft laughed along, feeling the blurred sense of well-being that the gin had given him. It was interesting — Rupert knew that he was very good at what he did, but simultaneously he truly expected to be exposed as a fraud. 

“I’m lucky to make a living watching bike racing.” Rupert continued. “And cyclocross is just fun — races last an hour and there’s constant action. Compare that to a flat stage in a grand tour, where the action doesn’t start until the last fifteen k… it’s absolutely deadly, having to talk for hours and hours about _nothing_. And then do it again the next day. Cyclocross is an absolute pleasure.”

“Good thing you like the sound of your own voice.” Mycroft said, deadpan.

Rupert _giggled_. It was delightful and Mycroft decided he wanted to make that happen again.

“Another drink?”

Mycroft hadn’t realised his glass was empty. “No, thank you.”

“You sure?” Rupert quizzed.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “If you’re attempting to get me drunk, you’ve already succeeded.”

“You really don’t ever drink.”

“This is the first I’ve had in... oh, five years. Other than a sip of champagne now and again.” Mycroft had “sampled” Father’s brandy when he was sixteen and ended up wandering aimlessly around the garden in the middle of the night and vomiting in the rosebushes. He had appreciated, but mostly loathed, the out-of-control, floaty, lightheaded feeling. He was nowhere near that now, just pleasantly fuzzy.

Rupert looked at him speculatively, a professional glint in his eyes. “You were talking with Hugo Charpentier... are you signing with Amstel?” He asked. “I had heard you were going to Sphere.”

“Are you interviewing me?” Mycroft asked.

“Just curious.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Those are two of the options.” He demurred. 

Rupert grinned. “Always nice to have options.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft grimaced. “Have to make a decision soon.”

“Why did I think you’d already joined Sphere?” Rupert tapped his lip thoughtfully. “A month ago — rumour was rife it was a done deal.”

“Far be it from me to contradict rumour.”

Rupert shrugged amiably. “Rumours are rarely completely baseless.”

“Hmm...” Mycroft saw no reason to obfuscate. “Sphere was my mother’s choice.” This was the second time he’d mentioned her. Mycroft grasped around inside himself for the complicated sentiment attached to the abandonment and was relieved to find nothing but ice. The gin had not melted him.

“Ah.” Rupert said and Mycroft could see the myriad questions in his eyes. “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to a rather acute curiosity about what happened with your family... but I think you’d prefer I didn’t ask.”

“I suspect you _are_ asking in a professional capacity.” Mycroft murmured, retreating.

“I’m _not_ asking, Mycroft.” Rupert said.

Mycroft searched Rupert’s expression for motives. He had to admit to some surprise at what he found. “Thank you.”

Rupert grinned — he really was good-looking, his black eyes and dark, wavy hair suggesting some Mediterranean ancestry. He clearly still rode at a relatively high level — he had the lean body and muscular legs, but not the extreme skinniness of Mycroft and his fellow professionals. Rupert liked beer and crisps too much for that. And his upper body carried more muscle... Mycroft wanted to run his hands over his well-developed deltoids...

It seemed Rupert read the direction of Mycroft’s thoughts: “I’m guessing that cut on your lip puts kissing right out. Unless I’m wrong? Have you been successfully kissed this week?”

Mycroft snorted, hiding his smirk. “Only by the podium girls.” He said. “They’re hard to put off.”

“I daresay you didn’t enjoy it.”

Shrugging, Mycroft shook the ice in his glass, searching for another sip. “Podium girls are not there for my enjoyment. They’re for television — part of the fantasy that winners are handed beautiful women. Another trophy for the most virile and powerful amongst us. It perpetuates the glamorous lie of sport, that men are strong, and women are possessions to be claimed by the strongest.”

“That’s...” Rupert paused, his eyebrows drawn together. “That’s really deep, actually.”

“Mycroft is a genius.” A voice said loudly. “Not many people know that, but it’s true.”

Mycroft stood up straight, pulling away from the wall and Rupert turned around towards the voice, breaking open their intimate cocoon. 

It was Greg, looking positively volcanic.

“Lestrade!” Rupert greeted him. “Excellent party, mate — I hope you’re enjoying it.”

Greg’s smile was tight. He barely acknowledged the commentator, his eyes on Mycroft. “I’ve been looking for you.” He said. “You’re late.”

“Apologies. I overslept.” 

“Your soigneur texted, yeah.”

An awkward silence ensued, and Rupert shuffled, his avid gaze shifting from Greg to Mycroft. “Why do I feel like I’m interrupting something?” He mused.

Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes briefly. He touched Rupert’s wrist, turning to him. “You haven’t.” He assured the man. “This is my fault — I was enjoying our conversation and lost track of the time.”

A soft noise escaped Greg’s lips — part bitter protest part hurt.

“I need to attend to this.” Mycroft continued. “I will contact you soon about the interview.”

“Yeah, ok.” Rupert said, his expression easing into a warm smile. “Even if you aren’t up for the interview, I hope you’ll reach out. I’ve enjoyed talking with you too, Mycroft.”

“I shall.” He said, with a small upturn of his lips. Mycroft squeezed Rupert’s wrist then stepped past him into Greg’s orbit. “Let’s get this over with.” He said.

Greg’s eyes roamed from Mycroft to Rupert and back, his displeasure apparent. But he gestured for Mycroft to precede him and followed through the crowd.

With no instructions, Mycroft made his way to the lobby, setting his gin glass on a tray as he passed. 

Rupert was... interesting. Mycroft had not intended any future entanglements — certainly not in the near future. But Rupert had opened up a world of possibilities. His casual encounters in the past had been overshadowed so completely by his affair with Greg Lestrade. Sex with Greg — sex within a relationship, _lovemaking_ — had been so different, so superior, so sensuous and consuming, that he’d rejected even the idea of reaching for solace with another.

But Rupert was kind and amusing... Mycroft was not ready to jump into anything... but just the idea that he _could_ sleep with him... it suggested a world he had not imagined...

“Where are we going?” He asked Greg, stopping by the fireplace. Wherever it was, Mycroft wanted to get there before anyone else could waylay him.

“My room.” Greg murmured, leading Mycroft to the lifts.

“What? No.” Mycroft protested. “Unacceptable.” 

“Look.” Greg growled. “There’s nowhere else. If you’d come at nineteen hundred, we could have had a private room down here. But everything’s full now. Unless you want to go out, take a walk...”

“No!” Mycroft shuddered at the idea of the cold. He’d had enough of shivering in the brutal chill. “Fine. Your room.” He gestured angrily at the lifts.

“Don’t worry. I won’t take advantage.” Greg said, the bitterness in his voice growing.

Mycroft knew that his discomfort had another, more selfish, source — he was loath to test the limits of his lovely, empty calm. But he let the subject drop and they were silent in the lift and on the way to Greg’s room.

It was a nice room, nicer than Mycroft’s own, roomy and new with a contemporary king-sized bed and a view of the mountains. There were the usual bike racing effluvia — discarded kit in the corner, a jar of chamois cream, water bottles and a tub of electrolyte powder stacked on the dark slab table. Peanut butter sat out, its familiarity making Mycroft ache.

After surveying the room, Mycroft went to the table. He dumped the pile of spandex on the chair onto the floor and sat, crossing his legs. He knew the razor-sharp crease of his trousers emphasised the length of his legs — Greg’s eyes seemed stuck there.

For the first time in his life, Mycroft wished he smoked. It would have given him something to do with his hands, it would have created a distance within this room.

Instead Mycroft checked his watch. “Ten minutes.” He said. 

“Jesus, My. You’re not going to hold me to that!”

Mycroft met his gaze, challengingly.

“You stand me up for hours, don’t even tell me yourself that you’d be late. Then let me find you eye-fucking with that... with that...” Greg threw up his hands in disgust. “You owe me more than _ten minutes_.”

“I’m here.” Mycroft gritted. “Get on with it.” Telling Greg Lestrade exactly how little he was _owed_ was a waste of breath — and Mycroft sensed it would endanger his hard-earned equilibrium.

Greg sighed heavily, rubbing his face. “You’re angry, I get it. I shouldn’t have pulled the stunt during the race...”

“No, you should not!” Mycroft snapped.

“I didn’t know how else... listen, I know you’re upset. I don’t blame you, I don’t. Just... try to give me the benefit of the doubt, My, yeah?”

Mycroft took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Arguing would simply make this ordeal last longer. He nodded once, indicating that Greg should proceed.

“Thanks, My.” Greg said earnestly. “Yeah... God...” He huffed, clearly trying to reset his thoughts. “Yeah... last night, in the lobby... during Lulu’s party. I saw you and we talked... we talked for twenty seconds maybe, before Fleur came down.”

Mycroft felt himself stiffen at her name and rebuked himself. He scrambled for the cold emptiness trying to pull it around himself again. It was difficult but with an effort, he managed it. The resulting buzz of calm was a relief.

“I realised that... Jesus, twenty miserable seconds with you was _better_ than the best times I’d spent with her — and the best times are long past. And I knew then, I can’t do it. I can’t be with her.” Greg took a breath. “I broke it off last night.”

Mycroft scoffed. “You won’t abandon the child.”

“No, of course I won’t! But I can be a dad without being with Fleur. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. I guess I thought I had to give her the chance.” Greg looked up at Mycroft, his eyes searching. “I tried with her, I really tried... but I couldn’t...” He shook his head. “I’ll still be there for the kid. We’ll co-parent him.” He paused. “It’s a boy, by the way.”

“Congratulations.” Mycroft said dryly.

Greg waved that away. “Don’t you see what this means?” He sat down on the corner of the bed closest to Mycroft and leaned forwards eagerly. “We can be together.”

The information washed over him. Mycroft had wanted exactly _this_ more than he’d wanted to breathe.

The empty wanted to fill, it wanted to swell and bloat with all the emotion — all the rot — Mycroft had so carefully suppressed. He _could not allow that_! It was too much! Mycroft would ignite! He would explode! He would splatter everywhere and bleed messily...

He took a deep breath and envisioned his tundra, conjured his walls of ice, attempting to surround himself...

But it was difficult... there was _so much_! Too much to empty!

“Fleur told Mummy about us.” Mycroft blurted. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say.

Greg cringed back, shamefaced. “She searched my phone.” He said. “I left it unlocked and she found our texts... and a few pictures... she knew I’d been seeing someone, and she just couldn’t let it go. When she found out it was you... she lost it. I’d never told her that I’d... I’d been with men. She didn’t take it well.” Greg ran a hand through his dark hair — it was still too short for the nervous gesture and he ended up passing his hand over his head, ruffling the ends. “I didn’t expect... I didn’t know she’d go to your family. I’m so sorry, My. I should have... I don’t know... stopped her. Been more careful with my phone... it’s been hard for you, yeah?”

“I don’t blame you.” Mycroft said softly. It was true though he hadn’t known it before this moment. “I knew the risks.”

Greg pushed himself off the bed onto his knees and took one of Mycroft’s hands in his own. “I have missed you every second.” He kissed Mycroft’s knuckles. “I’m so sorry, My. For everything.”

Mycroft caught a whiff of Greg’s scent — he was wearing the cologne Mycroft had given him for Christmas. He’d visited the shop himself, testing all the bottles until he found exactly the right one. It was vetiver and orange and it mingled perfectly with Greg’s body chemistry creating the most erotic scent Mycroft had ever known.

For a moment he was transported back to the guest house, to the bed in the loft where they’d made love... and he _wanted_ Greg with a dizzying level of desire.

No! Mycroft could not allow himself to be that incredibly vulnerable ever again! He was not so weak! He pulled his hand from Greg’s grasp and stood up, stalking towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Greg cried.

“Your ten minutes are up.” Mycroft said, not bothering to turn around.

“Wait! Mycroft... don’t leave!” Greg must have scrambled up from the floor — he caught Mycroft’s arm before he reached the door. “You can stay! We can be together!”

“I heard you the first time.” Mycroft told him, shrugging out of his grip. 

“Mycroft...” Greg looked astonished at his lack of excitement, at his lack of affect of any sort. “ _I love you_. And I _know_ that you love me.”

“You expect me to fall back into your arms like nothing has happened.” Mycroft observed, clinging to his dispassion. “I’m afraid I must disappoint you.” 

“But why? Why!”

“I have learned a great deal these past several weeks.” Mycroft said, aiming his gaze over Greg’s head. “Principally, what a fool I was to trust you — to trust _anyone_ that much. I will not make that mistake again. Now if you’ll excuse me...”

“Is it that Yates fellow?!” Greg demanded frantically. “Are you seeing him?!”

“I don’t see how that’s your business.”

“God! I can’t believe...”

“I am not _with_ anyone, Greg.” Mycroft cut him off. “Nor do I have the desire to be. _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side_.”

“Chemical defect? This isn’t you.” Greg said, wringing his hands. “Not at all.”

Mycroft rounded on him. “What did you imagine would happen this evening? That I’d fall into your arms weeping with joy and you’d take me to bed? We’ve done that — and look how it turned out: I lost _everything_. Everything!” The emptiness inside him was abruptly full, bursting with heat and fire — it was a volcano spewing lava all over his carefully maintained tundra, melting and boiling. “Did you really think it could be like that again!? Did you _think_ about me at all?”

“I’ve thought of nothing _but_ you!” Greg cried. “Day and night!”

“It’s good that you had the succour of your lover to ease your pain!” Mycroft snapped, dripping sarcasm.

“I didn’t have... you mean Fleur?” Greg’s laugh was bitter. “God, My... _succour_...nothing could be further from reality.”

Mycroft wanted to be somewhere else — he _needed_ to be away from this room! He needed to be alone to put out the fire raging within him, replace it with an iceberg, immovable, permanent.

He turned to the door, had his hand on the handle...

The body against his back was warm, breath, humid and hot, tickled his neck, fingers pressed ever-so-gently along his hips — Mycroft’s flesh ached to melt into the touch, wrap up in it...

“Please, My, think about it. Think about what we could have together — everything we wanted!” Greg’s voice was low, a whisper in his ear. “Everything we planned... look, you don’t have to decide now... take your time... _think_ about it.”

Before he could stop himself, Mycroft had leaned back — only a few degrees, but Greg’s fingers tightened on his waist. He did not want to capitulate! It was too dangerous! Greg had no conception of the danger...

“I... I will.” Mycroft choked. “I’ll consider what you’ve said.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

Flinging the door open, Mycroft tore himself free of the man holding him and ran away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Paris–Roubaix is a one-day professional men's bicycle road race in northern France, starting north of Paris and finishing in Roubaix, at the border with Belgium. It is one of cycling's oldest races, and is one of the 'Monuments' or classics of the European calendar.
> 
> ** stone - fourteen pounds 
> 
> *** 'Up the duff' is a euphemism for pregnant. 
> 
> ****Eddy Merckx, is a Belgian former professional road and track bicycle racer who is widely seen as the most successful rider in the history of competitive cycling. His victories include an unequalled eleven Grand Tours (five Tours of France, five Tours of Italy, and a Tour of Spain), all of the five Monuments, three World Championships, the hour record, every major one-day race other than Paris–Tours, and extensive victories on the track.
> 
> —
> 
> So Greg got his talk, though it didn’t go the way he seemed to think it would. As there IS a baby, (And we should all assume it’s Greg’s, no easy outs here) Mycroft would have to reconcile himself to some sort of parental role as well as an ongoing relationship with the self-centered Fleur if he ultimately decides to thaw and let himself have a relationship with Greg. 
> 
> And then there’s the handsome and worldly Rupert Yates, representing all the possibilities out there for Mycroft. Now that he’s no longer under Mummy’s thumb, will he want to explore? Sew some wild oats? He’s not yet 21 and he’s been sheltered his entire life, it’s natural to want to experiment.
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments!


	22. KRAWTENCROSS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft begins to settle into his new life.

Mycroft had his stitches removed.

The bruises had faded. Now there were only ripe scars pulling his lip and chin in subtly different directions than they’d been pulled before. 

They would fade.

He would get used to the little pucker that formed now when he smiled.

After leaving the doctors office, Mycroft walked to the crowded charity shop two blocks over. There he purchased a couch for his lounge — it was worn and an ugly, threadbare brown, but it had clean mid-century lines and a strong skeleton. He had it delivered to a reupholsterer and chose a nubbly green fabric for it. 

—

The coach Mycroft selected to lead his training was a thirty-something Luxembourger named Jens Schilinger. 

Mycroft travelled to the man’s home in Grummelsheid for the interview. Jens had Mycroft’s training schedules, power data from the last several months of training and racing, results of his most recent Functional Threshold Power test, his VO2max and lactate tests, his Maximal Aerobic Power and his power to weight ratio spread out in squared-off piles on his dining room table.

Mycroft opened his mouth to greet the man and was unceremoniously hushed. Too surprised to be offended, Mycroft closed his mouth and waited whilst Jens Schilinger squinted at him for over four minutes without saying a word — he had the distinct impression the man was measuring him, weighing his worth, judging his physiology, symmetry, the lengths of his limbs and the capacity of his lungs. He half expected Schilinger to pull out a tape measure and a scale.

When he finally spoke, he surprised Mycroft again. “Yes.” Jens Schilinger said. “I’ll take you on.

“I researched your grandfather.” He continued. “Brilliant climber, mediocre time trialist, no punch.” Schilinger spread his fingers over Mycroft’s training diary. “You’ve been training for explosive power. I watched video of your races last night — it’s a good strategy, recruiting the small amount of fast-twitch muscle you have. You’ll never be a sprinter, but you’ve built up a kick. I’d want to continue that, but add in some big climbing days and dedicated time trial practice... have you been in the wind tunnel? I don’t see that data here.”

“I have not.” Mycroft told him. He was a bit amused by the man’s manner and also intrigued. It was evident that Jens Schilinger was on the autism spectrum and his singular focus was the mechanics and maths of cycling.

“Mm. If you want to win a stage race, we’ll have to get you in the wind tunnel.”*

 _If he wanted to win a stage race_! Mycroft hadn’t even _ridden_ a stage race. He’d dreamed of riding the grand tours, of wearing the leader’s jersey, leading the peloton off the starting line it. He’d dreamed of standing on that podium his entire life, but had never quite allowed himself to believe that it could happen.

But Jens Schilinger thought it was possible.

Mycroft hired him on the spot.

—-

Mycroft met with Sphere at the urging of Elizabeth Smallwood. He also took a meeting with the Lotto cycling team on his agent’s advice. Both teams were impressive — Sphere had more money and more structure than any other team and they’d won the last five grand tours. Lotto fostered their racers’ development with single-minded dedication — their riders regularly outperformed expectations. 

He understood better why Mummy had wanted him to join Sphere — they won grand tours by imposing strict discipline on their riders. Everyone rode for the lone leader, James Moriarty, who was protected until the last kilometres on the steepest and longest climbs. Mycroft could see how that discipline — and the team’s persistent pursuit of ‘marginal gains’ — would appeal to her. She would appreciate their dedication to the details.

If he were honest, Mycroft appreciated it as well.

He signed the contract with Amstel. 

Amstel had elements of both Sphere and Lotto, and — though he told himself not to give it much weight — Mycroft had enjoyed the camaraderie.

Their outright acceptance of his homosexuality was also a motivator.

But most importantly, Amstel would give him chances to ride for himself this year, as well as to ride for the team, and they would take him to a grand tour. On Sphere he would ride exclusively for Moriarty, sacrificing his own prospects in favour of the team leader — and there was no guarantee he’d start one of the three-week tours if he wore Sphere kit.

He had waited long enough to race with a pro tour road team, Mycroft wanted to _race_!

\---

A week after leaving the second-hand sofa at the upholsterer, two delivery men carried it up the three flights of stairs to Mycroft’s flat. He loved how it looked, sitting long and low in the centre of the lounge. Mycroft had no other furniture for the room and decided he didn’t need any more. Now that he could sit in it (or lie in it), he loved the open, airiness of his lounge. 

Perhaps he’d get a rug... something into which he could dig his toes...

—-

“Today on the bike racing podcast, we welcome a rider that I’ve recently had the pleasure of getting to know better, Mycroft Holmes. 

“Though he’s been dominant this season in cyclocross — and he comes from cycling royalty — Holmes has been something of a cipher. I have to say, he’s not always been the easiest interview. More often than not he’s been unwilling to say much, sticking to monosyllabic answers and rote platitudes. That and his stoic — even frosty — demeanor in races has earned him the nickname, “The Iceman.”

“But occasionally I was treated to a glimpse of sly humour that spoke to the existence of a warmer personality than he’d shown.” Rupert Yates laughed. “You know me, ladies and gents, that was like waving a red cape at a bull. 

“Now we’ve all heard that Holmes experienced an abrupt — and dare I say, cataclysmic — change in his life on New Year’s Day, Holmes’ family abandoned him in dramatic fashion. Without a word, his parents, uncle and brother left before he’d finished racing. They had been, up until then, not just mother, father, and uncle, they were his team, his race support, even his coach. 

“Understandably, Holmes is unwilling to speak about the rupture. But he has opened up about the new life he’s been building in the month since. Welcome to the podcast, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s start with the big scoop — you’ve signed with a pro tour team!”

“Yes. I will be racing with Amstel this year.”

“Excellent choice — and I understand you had a number of choices. You must be chuffed.”

“I’m excited to begin my first year on the road.” Mycroft clarified. “Yes.”

“Have you done much road racing before?”

“Not at this level. But it’s been a goal since the first time I saw my uncle race.”

“I’ll remind the listeners that your uncle is Rudy Garin, son of the renown Roman Garin, stage winner in the Tour de France and Giro d’Italia, wearer of the _maglia rosa_ , just to skim the top of his _palmares_.”* Rupert narrated. “How old were you when you first saw your uncle race?”

“Three. It’s one of my first memories.”

“Three! What do you remember?”

“Oh... it was louder and more colourful than anything I’d ever seen before. It was fascinating.” It had been the first time Mycroft had been around that many people. He had been amazed that he could see all their stories written on their faces, their hands, the ways they moved and what they wore. It was one thing to be able to read his family, the maids, cook, the vicar, and the ladies at church that he saw every week.... but all these strangers! Each person was like a book and he could read them all! “Uncle Rudy won, and we watched him on stage. He let me play with the toy, the stuffed animal they’d given him.” Uncle Rudy had meant for Mycroft to keep it — it was a penguin in a cycling jersey — but Mummy gave it back to Rudy. He could tell by her body language that she thought it was vulgar. Mycroft knew if he complained he wouldn’t be allowed to see any more races, so he mourned the loss of the penguin in silence. “He showed me his bicycle, the drivetrain... I remember he explained how shifting the gears worked, how the lever pulled the cable moving the derailleur, shifting the chain from ring to ring... I thought it was elegantly simple. I was frustrated that it was too big for me to ride.”

“And you were just three?”

“Is that... unusual?” Sherlock had not understood the mechanics of cycling until he was older — four, perhaps even five — but he tended to be slower than Mycroft at most things.

“Erm, it is. Yeah.” Rupert blinked and Mycroft watched him dismiss his curiosity and decide to change tack. “What will be your first road race with Amstel?

“Strade Bianchi* — the cyclocross season will be over by then.”

“Ah! The heroic race of the white roads!” Rupert enthused. “One hundred and eighty-something kilometres through central Tuscany — a third of those kilometres on the white gravel roads common in the region. That’s a hard man’s race, for sure. If it’s wet, the roads are treacherously slippery, if it’s dry, the wheels churn up clouds of white dust...”

“All well within my skill set.”

Rupert laughed. “Indeed, it is. But the length — your ‘cross races last an hour, are you prepared for a race that lasts four or five times as long?”

“We will discover that together in March.” Mycroft smirked.

Rupert grinned at him. “We will! Now Greg Lestrade — your fellow cyclocross champion — astounded viewers last year in his debut season, winning five one-day races with astounding panache, winning a stage at the Tour de France, and generally being the MVP of Amstel, leading out sprinters, singlehandedly chasing down breakaways for teammates, ripping the peloton apart in the crosswinds… are you going to be able to live up to the expectations his performance has set?”

Mycroft had been prepared for the question. He’d practised his answer until he sounded completely casual. “I _have_ beaten Lestrade a number of times over the past few months.”

“And just missed beating him a few times too.” Rupert interjected.

“Notably at the World Championships.” Mycroft said wryly.

“That must have been tough, to be so close!”

“I admit I was disappointed with the result. But I was not disappointed in myself — I gave 100 percent in that race. I could not have ridden faster nor harder. It came down to the sprint.”

“Lestrade does have an enviable sprint.”

“We’re very different riders. Nine times out of ten he will beat me sprinting. But just as often, I’ll beat him uphill.”

“Your grandfather was a renown climber — as I mentioned earlier — do you think you get it from him?”

“Oh yes. I’ve inherited his energy systems, his lung capacity, his physiology — I’m told that I even resemble him somewhat.”

“It’s true — especially in profile.”

“Ah yes. The nose.” Mycroft hated his nose.

“And you share his colouring.”

“Ginger.” Mycroft disparaged.

“So humble.” Rupert laughed. “Roman Garin was an _extremely_ distinguished-looking man...” He stopped mid-thought, swallowing the compliments Mycroft read in his eyes. “Ahem... Garin never managed to win a grand tour… is that a goal of yours, Mycroft? A grand tour?”

“My goal today is to _ride_ in a grand tour.” Mycroft chuckled. “Let me get through one before I admit to wanting to win.”

Rupert laughed. “Fair. Fair.” He agreed. “But what makes you different than Roman Garin? What makes you _better_?”

“Assuming I _am_ better, which is a big assumption… training is very different now, more scientific, more targeted. Bicycle technology has advanced.” Mycroft paused. “And I don’t plan on ingesting amphetamines — before racing or otherwise.” He said with arch disapproval.

“Let me remind the listeners of your grandfather’s tragic passing — Roman Garin died during stage 14 of the 1982 Tour de France, from a combination of dehydration, electrolyte imbalance and — as Mycroft mentioned — amphetamines and alcohol. It was a different time. Fans of the Tour will remember seeing the plaque memorialising Garin and his accomplishments on Mount Ventoux.” Rupert said. “You never knew your grandfather.”

“I did not.” Mycroft said. “But he cast a long shadow over my family.”

“In what way?”

Mycroft huffed softly — he should have held his tongue, he could not speak publicly of his uncle’s attempts to live up to the legend of a father he barely remembered, or his mother’s lifelong resentment of Roman’s death — a resentment she’d passed on to Mycroft — and her obsession with molding her sons into superior versions of her father...

“It’s... complicated.” He said.

“Families are… you must miss them.”

“I miss my brother acutely.” Mycroft admitted. 

“That’s your younger brother, Sherlock — he races as well?”

“He does. He’s fifteen and gets stronger every race.” 

“Have you seen him at all since the rupture?”

“Once. Briefly.” They had continued to text, but Sherlock was not dealing well with being their mother’s sole focus. Mycroft felt guilty, as if he’d abandoned his brother rather than having been abandoned.

“Your life now is vastly different than before New Year’s. How are you getting on?”

“Well, by and large. There are definite advantages to living independently. I believe that I will enjoy it when I’m less busy. It is taking time to get settled, and I’m indebted to the very kind people who have helped me during the process.

“I owe even more to the two extraordinary support people that stayed with me when my parents left — without them, I can’t say what I would have done.”

“It’s cheering to know that you haven’t been alone.”

“I have not. And having races most weekends has given me an invaluable impetus... in some ways, life is very much the same — training, nutrition, and rest, none of that is different.”

“Training, nutrition and rest — the centre of every cyclist’s life. I must say I’m very much looking forward to seeing you race your first season on the road. I think we’ll see great things!”

“I’ll attempt to live up to your expectations.” Mycroft snarked.

Rupert chuckled appreciatively. “Thank you, Mycroft Holmes for joining me today — for giving your fans a sense of how you’re getting on. And to share a bit of your off-the-bike personality. We’ll all be watching Strade Bianchi with great interest!”

After the tech signalled that she’d turned off the recording, Rupert removed his headphones and grinned at Mycroft. “That was brilliant, Mycroft! I’d say you have to let me take you for a drink to thank you, but I know you’ve sworn off cocktails. Can I take you to lunch?”

“How kind.” Mycroft said, deciding on the spot that whilst he’d normally decline, he would make an exception for Rupert Yates. “I have a hundred things to take care of today… perhaps next week?”

Rupert was amenable and they agreed on a week from Wednesday. 

\---

Two weeks after the World Championships, Mycroft climbed on an Amstel bus and sat down in one of the plush reclining ‘pods.’ Watson was reading his phone in the adjacent pod whilst Greg Lestrade napped in the pod behind him.

Mycroft had flown first class to Hong Kong when he was eight. The bus’s pods reminded him of the big comfortable chair on the aeroplane that had reclined flat, turning into a bed.

Greg’s pod was stretched and dark. Mycroft was grateful to be spared speaking with his ex-lover, for the time being, at least.

Anthea and Alun and all of Mycroft’s bicycles and gear were on separate Amstel transports. 

It had been a busy week since he signed with Amstel — Mycroft had seen the team doctor, the team physiologist, and the team nutritionist, and undergone a battery of tests. He’d been issued brand new team jerseys, bib shorts, skinsuits, knickers, jacket, gillet, socks, shoes, helmets, gloves, sunglasses, t-shirts, and a cap. They’d even made him Amstel branded British National Champion jerseys to wear for cyclocross.

Alun got with their mechanics and they had built three team cyclocross bikes to Mycroft’s measurements. They’d fit him on a cutting-edge time trial bike and showed him the frame of the ‘home’ road bike they were building for him — the bike that the team let him take home for training. 

Mycroft had a storage space filled with bikes already — in addition to the two in his flat — but they were not the brand that sponsored Amstel. He had shoes and helmets, gloves and technical eyewear... but Amstel had sponsors for all those things that their riders were contractually obligated to wear. He would be a living advertisement for all the sponsors’ products.

It made him nervous, going into a race with brand new and unfamiliar equipment. He decided to wear his regular shoes with shoe covers rather than take a chance on new ones. Mycroft was grateful that Amstel didn’t have a saddle sponsor for cyclocross — the last thing he needed was to develop saddle sores from a seat to which he was not accustomed. 

Krawatencross was a DVV race — a series that Mycroft currently led — and a race with some climbing in it. On paper, it was a good race for him. He should do well. He _wanted_ to do well. He wanted to win his first race for Amstel.

The weather in Belgium was not nearly so cold nor wet as Switzerland. It was temperate and sunny without a breath of wind. Mycroft rejoiced — the ordeal at the World Championships had stuck with him and he was loath to repeat it.

As he dressed in the Amstel kit — black bib shorts with gold trim and the red and gold Amstel logo on the thighs and a long sleeved jersey, white with the British champion’s stripes as always, but now with “Amstel” high on his back and the logo lower, underneath his champion’s stripes — a wave of nostalgia hit him. This was almost exactly like the kit Greg had been wearing all season. The only difference was Greg’s had World Champion’s rainbow stripes versus the red and blue of Britain.

Mycroft had been thinking about Greg Lestrade quite a lot — so much that he wished he could put the man and his pleas out of his head. It was tempting to close his eyes and step back into the bliss of those few weeks in December.

But that felt too much like blindly stepping off a cliff.

Since his parent’s abandonment, Mycroft had learned how very sheltered he had been. He’d never, until now, stood on his own two feet. He’d never lived on his own, paid his own bills — heat! He was expected to pay for _heat_ separately from the monthly rent for his flat. _And_ electricity! When Anthea had informed him, he’d accused her of having a laugh at his expense — he’d never made a budget, bought his own groceries, cleaned a kitchen or changed bed linens. There was so much to do that it was a relief to get out on his bike for five or six hours of training. Even then, he went over the tasks in his mind, making lists and assigning time for each. It was exhausting.

It would be frighteningly easy to allow Greg Lestrade to prop him up.

Mycroft did not want to lean on anyone. He wanted — no, he _needed_ — to become self-sufficient before he invited anyone to share his life.

And that was very much apart from the fact that in a few months’ time, Greg’s circumstances would change radically with the birth of his child. Mycroft could not even imagine the time and effort and sheer drudgery an infant would add to one’s life. He was still attempting to master the iron, when he could find a spare ten minutes to make his shirts presentable. He had not known that laundering shirts left them so wrinkled! The burn on his finger smarted. 

No, Mycroft was nowhere near ready for a serious relationship.

Seeing Greg as they awaited their call-ups to the line, however, shook Mycroft’s resolve. Greg’s winsome smile and soft eyes were so lovely! He found himself smiling back, breathless at the sheer beauty of the man.

Fortuitously, Watson intervened, the grin on his face shining brightly. He was the only one of the three Amstel racers in the standard kit — he could only wear his rainbow jersey when he raced in the U23 field. Mycroft hadn’t worn the one he’d won last January at all this season, and he doubted Watson’s would see much use either.

“Vantourenout’s DNS.”* Watson told them, his smile fading.

“Yes.” Mycroft confirmed. He’d spoken with Lucinda earlier. “His knee is still swollen and painful and he’s decided to rest it this week.”

“I hope his season isn’t over.” Greg offered.

“There are only two more races — hardly worth risking greater damage.” Mycroft opined.

Greg shifted uneasily. “It means giving up the appearance fees — not to mention anything he might win. He’s not so well off he can let that go lightly.”

“Knee must be worse off than he’s let on.” Watson said.

Mycroft was relieved to hear his call up and leave the conversation behind. He was rapidly becoming well-acquainted with a dwindling bank balance.

His salary from Amstel had seemed generous until he began to pay his bills.

The race was fast from the bell, the large field hurtling towards the flight of stairs that led into the woods. Mycroft flubbed his sprint and was swamped by lesser riders, running up the steps somewhere between fifteenth and twentieth place. He leapt smoothly back onto his bike at the top, following the racer ahead of him closely as they rode the narrow path through the trees. 

When the course tilted upwards, still wending its way through the forest, Mycroft was able to improve his position somewhat. It was the first lap, everyone was fresh, thus he only passed four of the riders — and he could see the climb reordering the racers ahead of him. 

He caught sight of the rainbow jersey between two orange men…

At the summit, Mycroft dodged around another panting racer to tip himself onto the screaming descent. The way up had been circuitous, not switchbacks exactly, but back and forth and down a bit to avoid trees and rocky outcroppings, only to have to climb again. The way down was straight and steep, the gravel at the bottom already claiming a victim who hadn’t been able to navigate the shifting surface at speed.

Mycroft flew past the unfortunate rider, past a line of trees into a field. The field had been full of tall grass, but the earlier races had flattened the flora into a slippery mass beneath their tyres. It was wider and Mycroft took the initiative to pass another racer, elbowing his way in front of the man as they entered the series of technical corners.

The turns kept the racers from building up speed before the sand pit. It was deep and Mycroft fishtailed badly before he’d ridden a third of the way — he’d only been able to ride the whole way once in practice. He jumped off his bike and ran, pushing the machine, his feet sinking and sliding in the gritty wallow.

Back on his bike, Mycroft powered up a short hill to a long, fast section. He revved up his speed, flying around the lake to another stand of trees. A small ramp took them into the copse to the barriers, which he bunny-hopped easily.

Dodging out of the trees, the course took them across a road — Mycroft leapt his bike over the ditch on the other side — to another uphill. This one not nearly so long nor circuitous, but challenging, nonetheless. It required a great deal of strength to ascend.

The top took them into a rideable off-camber to a short power straight past the bike pit — Mycroft caught sight of Alun giving him a “thumbs up.”

The course turned back on itself into a rhythm section — a series of ten short, steep hills in a row. It was almost impossible to pedal through the rhythm section, one had to use the momentum of the little downhills to take one up the next uphill, shoving the handlebars down hard, then pulling up, as one coasted through.

There was an art to it, one Mycroft had never quite mastered. He was too light — the heavier riders sped through as if it were nothing. 

Another curving path returned the racers to the start/finish. The speed had been full-on the entire first lap, but on the pavement, the group bunched up, the lead riders looking around to see how many racers were still in the front. Everyone looked at each other for a few seconds as other riders caught up and joined them, until two of the orange men took the initiative and attacked the bunch. Mycroft sprinted after them, slotting easily into fifth place as they raced towards the stairs.

Despite the climbing, it was a fast course. Mycroft settled in. He would, he decided, stick with the front group for now and allow attrition to thin the ranks. After the halfway mark, he’d start to look for an opportunity to attack. Either one of the longer climbs would work. He would have to build up enough of a lead so as to avoid being caught in the rhythm section.

For once, the race went to plan. Riders fell off the front group every lap until only Greg, Wurst, Watson, Mycroft and a done-in looking fellow in the black kit of Sven Nys’s racers remained.

On the tenth time around — of twelve — Watson put in a blistering attack on the wooded hill. Mycroft matched him and they left the other three behind. 

Greg and Dieter Wurst caught up by the barriers, the four of them riding over the planks together.

Mycroft took his turn on the second, straighter ascent, spinning up into a sprint without leaving the saddle. He was fast uphill and left even Watson labouring in his wake.

Watson rejoined him on the power straight, and Greg caught up on the rhythm hills. They both sat on his wheel for the remainder of the lap.

Mycroft was happy to lead into the penultimate lap, clambering up the stairs with his bike on his shoulder. He rode the single track deftly and launched himself at the very bottom of the winding hill through the trees, attacking the climb with all his strength. 

He emerged at the top alone, diving down into the gravel. In the technical corners, he caught sight of Watson behind him — Mycroft estimated he had roughly fifteen seconds on the other rider. Unencumbered by other racers, he rode all the way through the sand pit.

He was still alone at the barriers! Mycroft charged up the second hill, hoping to put more distance between himself and the chasers — he succeeded! Not only did no one catch him, when Mycroft rode through the start/finish, Anthea signalled that he had a twenty-six second lead!

The bell rang as he crossed the line. Mycroft had an entire lap left to ride. He could be caught. This race could play out just like Worlds had, Mycroft getting pipped at the line.

But his legs were feeling good and his lungs were barely burning at all! He charged up the steps and sped through the single track. He assaulted the climb — he had it memorised now, every twist and turn, and he rode it faster even than the lap before when he’d attacked Watson and Lestrade.

The descent went by in a flash, the flattened grass of the field, the sand and the steep little uphill to the power section around the lake. When he navigated the corners or peeked under his arm, Mycroft didn’t see anyone.

He had enough momentum as he rode up the ramp into the trees, that he lifted his bike, popping off the ground and twisting his body and his wheels showily. The crowd roared!

(Mummy would have hated such a show of hubris.)

Mycroft flew across the road and over the ditch to the second climb. This was his last real chance to keep the distance between himself and Greg Lestrade. He flogged himself hard, flying up the ascent at full speed. He was panting at the top, feeling breathless and hot. 

The off camber gave him a moment to regulate his breathing before he was sprinting again down the short power straight.

Alun leaned over the bike pit barrier, screaming encouragement. Mycroft began to believe he could win!

But the rhythm section loomed. Mycroft fully expected this, his Achilles Heel, to be where Lestrade overtook him. It was painful, feeling himself slowing as he coasted over the whoops. He was almost panicking by the time he descended the last of the ten hill bumps, and stood up on the pedals to sprint around the sweeping corner into the start/finish for the last time.

Mycroft swallowed the panic, his heart in his throat. He sat down to spin his pedals as fast and hard as he could — all his senses tuned to the space behind him where Greg Lestrade would be.

But Mycroft crossed the line alone, arms aloft, no one else even on the tarmac!

It felt fantastic!

—-

Mycroft’s euphoria lasted until he returned to the Amstel bus after the podium ceremony and drugs testing. 

He’d been marvelling that whilst racing he hadn’t noticed the new gear at all — not even the sunglasses that sat on his nose differently from his old ones, nor the hideous red bar tape on the black and gold Amstel bike. Once the race had begun, the new bike had felt perfectly familiar beneath him, and he’d ceased to be aware of the red handlebars, the new helmet, new gloves... he hadn’t even registered the single “double-tap” shifting lever.*

He found Watson had his pod swivelled around facing Greg. He was dealing cards like a pro.

“There you are!” Watson exclaimed, standing up. They’d barely spoken after the race — Boy Hermans had been lecturing Greg and Watson’s soigneur had whisked him to a corner to massage his legs. And Anthea, it turned out, was remarkably good at policing who got through to speak to Mycroft and who did not. Neither of his teammates, it seemed, were on her ‘approved’ list. “You climb like a demon!” Watson continued. “I might as well have been standing still. Never seen anything like it!”

“Hyperbole.” Mycroft mumbled.

“He’s right, My.” Greg said, colouring a little as he used the pet name. “Your climbing’s improved since training camp.”

“And you were faster than the rest of us then.” Watson said. He held up his deck of cards. “Join us?” 

“He’s a shark.” Greg warned, his smile warm. “He’ll take you for all you’ve got.”

Mycroft’s answering smile was insincere. “I think I’ll rest.” He said, reclining the seat in his pod. He ignored the regretful look on Greg’s face.

What would these bus transfers have been like if they’d never broken up? Would Mycroft have sat down with them, giddy with happiness. Would Greg have moved his foot to press against Mycroft’s. Would they have laughed and rubbed shoulders until John Watson guessed their secret? Would they have held hands brazenly? Would they have cuddled together in a pod late at night whilst the others slept? Would they have been joyfully careless of discovery?

Curling on his side and closing his eyes, Mycroft listened to the murmur of Greg and Watson’s conversation, to the snapping of the cards as they were laid on the table. 

He could have all that right now! He could have Greg and the giddy joy of loving and being loved.

Mycroft wished he was with Anthea in the passenger van, or with Alun in one of the mechanics’ trucks — anywhere but in this plush, comfortable bus with the man who’d broken his heart.

Greg’s voice wrapped around him, held him close. Mycroft felt as he had in those few golden days when they had gone to bed together each night and woken together in the morning, when they made love in the shower after training, on the couch after dinner, on the floor, on the kitchen table, in bed...

What would he do if Greg came to him now, caressing his shoulder and sitting down? What would he do if Greg climbed into his pod and spooned him, folded his arm around Mycroft’s chest? Would he allow it? 

Mycroft found his earPods and tapped the ocean sounds app on his phone. It was immediately comforting, the waves washing through him, clearing away the sentimental detritus of their relationship. It blocked out the sounds of cards and quiet words, replacing everything with cold, clear static.

He drifted in the ocean of emptiness...

Jerking awake, Mycroft realised he’d slept. The bus had stopped. He gathered his belongings, tucking them away in his duffel, shrugging on his coat. Greg and John popped up, their card game long over. Watson patted Mycroft on the back, once again congratulating him heartily on the win — Amstel had swept the podium, Watson occupying the third step, Greg the second.

Greg too congratulated him, standing awkwardly in the aisle, looking like he had no idea what to do with his hands. 

“This your place then?” Watson asked, following Mycroft to the exit. “Nice neighbourhood.”

“It’s quiet.” Mycroft murmured, hoisting his duffel. 

“Who’s that?”

Mycroft frowned, following Watson’s pointed finger to his own doorway. A figure lurked in the shadow of the doorframe. 

“Doesn’t seem like the area for sleeping rough.” Watson added.

“John?”

Sherlock stepped out of Mycroft’s doorway, into the light of a streetlamp. He looked thinner and more gangly than he had even two weeks ago, and his warm up trousers rode high, exposing his ankles. He must have had a growth spurt. Indeed, he moved as if his limbs were strange appendages he hadn’t quite mastered yet.

“Sherlock?” John Watson followed Mycroft into the street, Greg right behind him. “You’re staying here too? Why are you on the doorstep?”

“John.” Sherlock actually _smiled_. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Just dropping Mycroft...”

Sherlock looked at his brother and his face fell. “I told you how to beat them, John, why didn’t you win!?”

“ _Knowing_ someone’s weakness and taking advantage of them are two separate things, Sherlock.” Watson chuckled. 

“Good to see you, mate.” Greg told Sherlock, stepping forward. 

“Lestrade?! You’re here too?” Sherlock exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone back to him, Mycroft!”

Mycroft froze — he’d spent so long monitoring his every word and look, scrupulously hiding his feelings, Sherlock’s recklessness shocked him, angered him, robbed him of words! Outing him was one thing, but outing _Greg_! It could not be born.

“Come to visit your brother?” Greg bulled on, as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken.

“Obviously.” Sherlock sneered.

“He’s missed you.” Greg said.

“Yes, we’ve all heard the podcast.” Sherlock said disdainfully. “Why Mycroft put up with that man’s flirting is a mystery to me!”

“Flirting?” Greg exclaimed, face flushing red. “Yates?!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Jealous. Typical.” He mumbled.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft protested. How could he have so quickly forgotten his brother’s rude intemperance?!

“I think I’m missing something.” Watson said, confused smile on his open face.

“Always.” Sherlock snarked.

Mycroft sighed heavily. “Whilst this is entertaining my neighbours, I’m sure, perhaps we could continue indoors?”

“Why bother when you’re planning to chuck me out?” Sherlock challenged.

“That’s not fair, Sherlock.” Greg interjected. “Mycroft would do anything for you.”

Sherlock scoffed. “No, he won’t. He’s going to send me back to _them_!”

“Who?” John looked thoroughly confused.

“Mycroft would do anything for _you_!” Sherlock waved disparagingly at Lestrade. “But me? Lip service, no more!”

“Sherlock...” Mycroft said through his clenched jaw. “Must we argue on the doorstep? Come in.”

“No.” Sherlock said truculently. “As soon as your boyfriend leaves, you’ll betray me!”

“Boyfriend?” Watson furrowed his brow.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped, willing his brother into silence.”

“You can’t send me back!”

“Back where?” Watson asked. 

“To our parents.” Mycroft grated. 

“I can’t go back!”

“What my brother fails to appreciate,” Mycroft addressed himself to Watson. “Is that if I don’t alert our parents to his whereabouts, our mother will insist the police arrest me and charge me with kidnapping.”

“But you didn’t...” Watson protested. 

“She wouldn’t!” Greg interjected. 

“She would.” Mycroft insisted miserably. “She will.” 

“You ran off, didn’t you Sherlock?” Greg Lestrade said earnestly. “You’ll tell them that.” He was trying to be helpful. Mycroft wished he’d go back into the bus. “We can all attest that you couldn’t have — you were with us at the race.”

“It matters not at all. He is a minor.”

“Mycroft, you _know_ what Mummy’s like!” Sherlock wailed. “You can’t send me back!”

“If she’s hurting him...” Watson began.

“He’s really upset, My.” Greg said.

“Sherlock, tell Watson and Lestrade why you don’t get along with Mummy.” Mycroft instructed.

Sherlock scowled at his feet.

“Tell them!”

“She never lets me alone!” Sherlock wailed. “She always has to know where I am and what I’m doing. She wakes me up at night to be certain I’m breathing! She follows me in the car on my training rides! I can’t turn around without getting the third degree. She ruins my experiments! She invades my mind palace! It’s suffocating! And boring! I can’t do anything.”

“Sherlock was a sickly baby.” Mycroft told them. “Mummy has never shaken the anxiety. She has a propensity to micromanage as it is.”

“You’re the only one who can reason with her, Mycroft! But you’re _not there_!”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, hanging his head. He was sincerely sorry.

“Oi!” The driver of the bus shouted. “You gonna be all night?”

“Apologies, Thomas.” Mycroft said quickly. “Good evening, Watson... Greg.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet his former lover’s eyes. He turned towards his front door, clamping a hand around his brother’s upper arm and dragging him along. “I’ll ring my attorney, see what recourse we might have.” He told Sherlock. “You’re not going back tonight.”

That assurance was enough to move Sherlock indoors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Wind Tunnel - an apparatus used to determine the complex interactions between a high-speed, velocity-controlled stream of air and the forces exerted on a solid object. The movement of air around an object, whether it is an airplane, bicycle, automobile, or person, is considered aerodynamic flow. When wind tunnel tests are performed on bicycles, they help to optimize the cyclist's position on the bicycle and to improve the aerodynamic design of bicycles, cycling equipment (such as bottles, wheels, helmets, and handlebars), and clothing.
> 
> *Strade Bianchi - a road bicycle race in Tuscany, Central Italy, starting and finishing in Siena. First held in 2007, it is raced annually on the first or second Saturday of March. The name Strade Bianche stems from the historic white gravel roads in the Crete Senesi, which are a defining feature of the race. 
> 
> *Maglia rosa - Since 1931, the leader of the general classification of the Giro d’Italia (Tour of Italy, a three week grand tour) is identified by wearing a pink jersey, the “maglia rosa” in Italian.
> 
> *Palmarés - A list of races a rider has won.
> 
> *Double-tap shifting - https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/SRAM_Double_Tap
> 
> *DNS - Did Not Start
> 
> —-
> 
> Apologies for not posting last week — work has been demanding and I had almost no time to write. I think I’ll likely be posting every other week for a few chapters.
> 
> So! What do you think? Is Mycroft doing ok? Is lunch with Rupert a date date? Will Watson figure out that his teammates had an affair? Will Mycroft be forced to send Sherlock home and if so, will he hate Mycroft forever? Will he start using drugs to escape?
> 
> If Mycroft excels at road racing, will Greg resent his success?


	23. MIDDLEKERKE SUPERPRESTIGE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft and the last cyclocross race of the season.

Middlekerke Superprestige was the last cyclocross race of the season. 

In the past, it had always been bittersweet — Mycroft could look back on his accomplishments over the season and be proud of how he’d improved… and after racing week in and week out for five months, he could rest. It was the start of a quieter time when Mycroft had the opportunity to read voraciously and reflect upon his future.

But it also meant the end of everything he’d worked for, an end to the excitement, the adrenaline, the thrilling competition… 

This year, however, the end of cyclocross led directly to the beginning of Mycroft’s first season racing on the road with a World Tour team. The anticipation he felt woke him up at night. It made him smile foolishly during his training rides. His skin prickled and his insides tickled with excitement he could barely contain.

Sherlock, however, never failed to distract him from whatever enthusiasm he was experiencing. It was a singular talent. 

Mycroft had called Father the morning after Sherlock showed up on his doorstep.

“Sherlock is safe.” He’d said when his father answered. “He showed up at my flat last night.”

There was a pause. “Hold on.” Father said. Mycroft listened to him excuse himself and move to a different room — his study, Mycroft was certain — and close the door.

“Thank god!” Father said. “I’d hoped that he’d gone to you. He’s well?”

“Perfectly. If a bit put out that I rang you.”

“And you, Mycroft are you well?”

“Ah. Well enough.” It was awkward — Father cared, but he’d left with Mummy. He hadn’t called or tried to contact Mycroft in any way.

“Right.” Father said and cleared his throat. “Your attorney contacted me… I won’t fight him on your trust. It’ll be yours in April.”

“I appreciate that.” He did. It was a _huge_ weight off Mycroft’s shoulders knowing that the inheritance his grandmother — Father’s mother — had meant for him, would be his when he turned twenty-one in the next month. His pride wanted to reject it, to do it all on his own. But it would be an excellent insurance policy, there if he needed it. 

Mummy would not be happy that Father contradicted her — and Father bent over backwards to keep Mummy happy. Mycroft should be grateful that Father was standing up for him. In this, if nothing else.

“Your mother is beside herself.” Father said after a pause. “I must tell her that Sherlock’s been found.”

“Wait.” Mycroft was mildly surprised when his father obeyed. “If nothing changes, he will run again.” 

Father didn’t argue. They both knew how clever Sherlock was. How slippery he could be. Nothing they did, no matter how many keepers they hired, how many cameras they installed, how many locks they put on the doors, Sherlock would circumvent them. He would see it as a challenge. “I’ve tried. Your mother doesn’t listen to me.”

“I’ve spoken to Sherlock about going away to school.”

“He won’t go.” Father asserted. “He flatly refused when we brought it up two years ago.”

“Circumstances have changed. If it were the _right_ school, I think he will agree.”

“The _right_ school?”

“If it were in Belgium.”

Father sighed deeply. “I don’t know if I can sell that.” To Mummy. Mummy would have to agree. “If your mother even suspects that you and he are in contact...”

“I assumed as much.”

“If she finds out, she’ll yank him back to England.”

“And he will run away. What if he doesn’t come to me next time?”

“I know. I know.” Father said mournfully. “Good Lord, Mycroft, this is a mess.”

_That you did nothing to circumvent_

Mycroft didn’t say it. “Tell Mummy that he’s with Anthea. Is Uncle Rudy in Belgium?”

“I think so… yes.”

“He can pick Sherlock up at hers. Or she’ll take him to Garin House, whichever you prefer. Whilst he’s in the country, perhaps Rudy can take him to look at schools. There are several in Antwerp that would be suitable. I believe that the Lycée Français International d'Anvers has an accelerated science program. That should hold his interest.” For a while at least.

“I don’t know what your mother will say.” Father moaned.

“Tell her he needs to be in Belgium for Rudy to coach him properly. Tell her it’s for the racing. Better yet, have Rudy tell her.”

“Yeah… maybe I’ll do that.” Father said doubtfully. “She will want to speak with Sherlock, as soon as I tell her he’s turned up.”

“Tell her that Anthea called you in confidence — that she hasn’t broken it to Sherlock yet that he has to go home.”

“OK.” Father grumbled. Mummy wouldn’t like that.

“Ideally, he’ll stay at Garin House until he’s enrolled in a suitable school.” Mycroft said. “I’ll reconcile him to the necessity of skyping with her daily.” He was relatively confident he could convince his brother.

“OK, OK… I need to go. I need to tell her.” He did — she would be unreasonable if she thought Father hadn’t informed her at the very first opportunity.

“Indeed. Goodbye Father.”

“Mycroft… good luck on Amstel.”

Mycroft rang off without voicing his reply.

\---

Lord forbid that Sherlock listen to reason. It wasn’t enough that Mycroft had arranged to free him from Mummy’s oppressive oversight. It wasn’t enough that Mycroft was attempting to settle him in Antwerp where he would be close by — and willing to intercede on his behalf during the inevitable friction with his new school. No, that wasn’t near enough for his dear brother! 

Sherlock fled from Garin House before Mummy and Father could arrive to satisfy themselves that he was safe and whole, and —optimally — tour the schools in which they would consider placing their younger son.

“I hate you!” Sherlock declared. He’d broken into Mycroft’s flat five hours after Anthea had picked him up from same. “You don’t care what happens to me!”

“That’s not true.” Watson protested. John Watson had turned up on Mycroft’s doorstep a half hour prior, insisting that they ‘needed to talk.’ 

“Why?” Mycroft asked Watson, mildly appalled at the idea.

“I was up most the night with Greg.” Watson answered. “He told me everything.”

Good lord! Mycroft had expected that Watson would work it out after Sherlock had practically set up a billboard with flashing lights and a loudspeaker announcing his relationship with Greg Lestrade. But he hadn’t thought in his wildest dreams that John Watson would insert himself into something that was emphatically _not his business_.

“And?” He asked, his mind churning through the possibilities. Greg had confided in him… had Watson taken it upon himself to plead Greg’s case, or had Greg sent him? Regardless, Mycroft did not want to hear it.

“You going to invite me in?”

“Is that truly necessary?”

“I’m serious, Mycroft.” Watson insisted, iron in his voice. “We need to talk.” 

Mycroft would have gnawed off his own leg to escape. He had nothing against John Watson. The man could race. He had helped Mycroft with Sherlock and been accepting of his homosexuality. Watson liked to gamble too much — that would get him into trouble — and he compulsively chatted up every young female that crossed his path. (He’d even had a go at Anthea!) But Sherlock had taken to him, for some reason that he could not fathom, thus it behoved Mycroft to humour John Watson. He sighed and stepped back, opening his door wide.

“Tea?” Mycroft asked as Watson stood in front of the new couch and glanced around his flat. 

“Yeah. Ta… don’t go in much for furniture, do you.”

Briefly Mycroft considered explaining that having been so abruptly disowned, he’d had no time to amass furniture — nor much interest in doing so. But that was much too personal. In any case, he sincerely doubted Watson cared.

“No.” He said instead.

“Right.” Watson fidgeted for a moment, then sighed. “Greg told me what happened.” He said. “About how you’d broken up. He regrets it, you know.”

 _The nightmare of their breakup would never end_. “I am aware.”

“Right. We can’t let it get in the way of the racing.” Watson said. “And right now, it is.”

That wasn’t the tack Mycroft had expected Watson to take. “Is it?” He asked, giving the man a hard look, searching for what he hadn’t deduced.

“You haven’t noticed?” Watson sounded incredulous. “Greg said you noticed everything. So did Sherlock, come to that.”

“Don’t be absurd.” No one noticed _everything_.

“He’s not sleeping.” Watson said. “Greg.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Mycroft asked, a razor’s edge in his voice. _Now Watson would suggest he take Greg back_. It was inevitable. Mycroft desperately wanted to discourage him. The water had boiled. He bought himself some time by making a pot of tea, his back to Watson. When he could avoid it no longer, he turned and handed the cup to the other man. “Milk?”

“Yeah. Cheers.” 

Mycroft retrieved the milk and gave it to him. “You must know that this isn’t a good time… my brother...”

Watson held up his hands placatingly. “I know. And I’m sorry to bring it up when you’ve got your hands full with Sherlock. I’m just saying, I don’t think either of you are at your best right now. He knows he’s made mistakes, and he wants to fix it.”

“Some things are beyond repair.” Mycroft hated how this conversation was churning up emotions he preferred to keep frozen. He took the milk back to the fridge, grateful for the opportunity to turn away.

“I told him that.” Watson said, sipping his tea. “Listen, we talked for a long time. He understands now how much pressure he’s been putting on you. He’s not going to do that anymore. He’s backing off — you’re in the driver’s seat now. You can have as much or as little contact with him as you want. But I’m asking you — for the team — make peace with him.”

Watson was proving to be more astute than Mycroft ever would have suspected. “We are not at war.”

“Mycroft… forgive him. I promise that he won’t mistake it for encouragement.”

 _Forgive him_?! Forgive Greg Lestrade?! Forgive the man that had cut him to pieces! “You don’t know what you are asking.” Mycroft barely recognised the devastated husk as his own voice.

“Probably not.” Watson agreed. “But I have some idea. I’ve been hurt. I’ve had breakups that I didn’t think I’d survive.” He scoffed. “You don’t care about that, do you.” He paused, biting his lip, and Mycroft thought this ordeal might finally end. But Watson put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, effectively pinning him in place. “You know Greg didn’t hurt you for selfish reasons. He didn’t _want_ to do it. And he’s been miserable ever since. Not just because he misses you, but because he _knows_ he hurt you.

“But none of that matters, does it. Don’t do it for him. Do it for _you_ , Mycroft. You’ll feel better.”

Mycroft bridled and abruptly the cold was in reach. He drew it around himself haughtily. “I am fine.” He insisted.

“Then do it for the team.” Watson repeated. “Please.”

 _Please_! Mycroft pulled away and turned back to the worktop, hiding his face.

Sherlock’s timing was impeccable. Clattering around in the bedroom after he’d climbed through the window and striding down the hall proclaiming that Mycroft did not care about him. The sight of John Watson brought him up short. His mouth dropped open.

“Mycroft would do anything for you, from what I’ve seen.”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut. “And what have _you_ seen? If he cared about me at all he wouldn’t have taken up with Lestrade! He knew what Mummy would do!”

“You can’t blame that on Mycroft.” Watson countered. “His love life is no one’s business but his own.”

“ _But he knew what she would do_!”

“That doesn’t make it his fault. Pardon me saying so, mate, but your mother is wrong.”

“What do you know about it?!” Sherlock demanded. “ _Mate_? Last night you didn’t even know they were together!”

“You changed that, didn’t you.” Watson said, the iron in his voice again. “OK, I’ve said what I came here to say, I’ll let you alone. Think about it, Mycroft, yeah? Ta for the tea.”

The brothers watched John Watson leave the flat, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock turned on Mycroft in a fury. “Why are you turning him against me?!”

Mycroft sighed. “I’m not.”

“Then why was he here?! What _else_ do you have to talk about but me?!” Sherlock sneered. “Don’t tell me you were discussing race strategy.”

“Sherlock…”

“Oh God! Are you sleeping with him?!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mycroft retorted. “If you would have _looked_ , you would know why he was here.”

“To talk about _me_!”

“Not you.” Mycroft told him. “If you hadn’t let your emotions get in the way, you would have seen the obvious.”

“I saw!”

“What was he wearing?”

Sherlock paused very briefly, looking inward at the memory. “What he wore last night.”

“Indeed. You know he didn’t spend the night with me — you were here.”

Scowling, Sherlock looked at the floor. “Lestrade. He was with Lestrade.”

“Yes. Lestrade has a confidant. Thanks to you.”

“But why would John want to talk to you about Greg?” Sherlock was sincerely confused.

“Why indeed. Team harmony.” Mycroft answered him. 

Squinting, Sherlock worked it out. “He’s worried that your relationship will negatively affect the team’s racing…”

“More worried, I think, that our parting brings negativity and bad feelings into our professional relationship, affecting the entire team.”

“Would it?”

“I don’t know.” Mycroft admitted brusquely. “Perhaps.” He picked up Watson’s teacup and took it to the sink, rinsing it. “In any case, it’s high time I put it all behind me.”

“I’m surprised you allowed the sentiment to fester.” Sherlock said, digging through Mycroft’s cupboard. “Don’t you have biscuits?”

“Why would _I_ have biscuits, brother mine? You know my diet.”

“Are you still doing that? I thought you’d be right off it by now.”

“It would not be wise to make radical changes in the midst of racing season.” Especially with so much other upheaval in his life. As monotonous as his nutrition plan was, as tired as he was of following it, it provided a much-needed structure and familiarity to his life. “Now. Let’s discuss which school you will find acceptable to attend…”

\---

Climbing onto the Amstel bus six days later, Mycroft was uncertain what he would find. 

Watson’s words had stayed with him all week. _He knows he made a mistake. He’s backing off — you’re in the driver’s seat now. Forgive him. Don’t do it for him — do it for you. You’ll feel better_. He had turned them over and over… could he do it? Would it make any difference? Would it soothe the gory wound within him if he allowed it to thaw?

Mycroft was afraid to melt the layers of ice. He was terrified.

He saw John Watson first, leaning across the wide aisle to talk with Greg.

_Greg._

Greg made eye contact and nodded at Mycroft — but the hopeful smile was gone. 

Mycroft nodded to both of them and slipped into his pod. 

He was wary all day, watching, waiting for a pleading look or a possessive scowl…

But there was nothing.

Greg still smiled. He was still beautiful, still a cycling Adonis. Still kind to children and indulgent with fans. He was still everything with which Mycroft had fallen in love. But the anxiety was gone. The nervous energy he’d been radiating had settled. He was calm.

There were still burdens, regrets, but Greg carried them silently, keeping them hidden from view. Keeping them from becoming Mycroft’s problem.

Perhaps Sherlock had inadvertently done him a favour, revealing their relationship to John Watson. Having a confidante seemed to have released the steam from the pressure cooker of Greg Lestrade’s emotions.

It was a relief. It was more than a relief — it was a stunning reprieve! A respite from a constant pressing nag that had kept Mycroft in a state of tension and stress.

Mycroft could breathe. He could let down his guard. He could relax. He had a chance to become a real part of the team!

It was not an anodyne. The pain was not healed. The wound remained deep and crippling… he still thought about Greg, pined for him, hated him, craved him and raged at him… but if Greg could put it all aside, then — for the sake of the team — Mycroft could _try_.

The problem was that Mycroft had no idea how to forgive. He understood the concept, but the practise was foreign to him. He spent part of the week studying forgiveness, reading Paul’s Letters to the Corinthians, Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature, and an Oxford Press book of essays on Forgiveness and Love that he found in the library.

If forgiveness required a complete overcoming of negative emotions and judgements… Mycroft could not do it. How could anyone do that?

But one of the essays… Mycroft had dismissed it out of hand when he’d first read it — it was nothing but magical thinking, new age claptrap. But his mind kept circling around and snagging on it. 

_The physical act of smiling has been shown to improve the smiler’s mood. The cart attracts the horse. The chicken or the egg. Going through the motions of forgiveness, even when one harboured bitterness and pain, led to actual forgiveness._

With no better strategy, Mycroft determined to attempt it. He made a concerted effort to _pretend_ that he had forgiven Greg Lestrade. Perhaps if he pretended long enough, he would forget that it wasn’t real.

\----

The first real test of Greg’s equanimity in the face of his ex-lover came in the late morning at Middlekerke. For the first time, the three Amstel racers put their heads together and made a plan before the race. They’d swept the podium the week before. In the absence of Vanthourenhout, there was no reason they couldn’t do it again.

On the bus, they’d gone over a map of the course — they’d all ridden it before the first race began — and plotted out a strategy. Or strategies — races were unpredictable and had a habit of taking rider’s plans and crushing them in the mud. 

But it was a collegial half hour. Just the day before, Mycroft would not have thought he could spend a half hour in Greg’s company without the swells of anger and the bitter ache that seeped through the numbness.

As they left the bus together, someone hailed Mycroft.

“Oi, Holmes. Over here.”

It was Rupert Yates, standing behind the fencing that delineated the press area from the racers’ staging ground.

Smiling, Mycroft walked over to the waist-high fence. “Hello.”

“You’re looking smart, all decked out in your new gear.”

Mycroft felt his cheeks warm. “Not my usual style.” He admitted, tugging the hem of the Amstel-branded coat, straightening it. “Shouldn’t you be working?”

“I am.” Rupert told him. “I’m networking with the racers.”

“Ah, so this is a professional conversation.”

“Partially. Maybe.”

“Should I call my teammates over?” Mycroft turned, abruptly conscious that Greg had watched him go to Rupert. The memory of his jealousy did something complicated with Mycroft’s emotions — something angry-impatient-hurt covered with a thick layer of ice. “Did you want a pre-race interview?”

“You’re OK.”

Neither Greg nor John Watson was in sight. The relief was exquisite.

“I just thought I’d tell you how much I enjoyed having lunch with you.” Rupert said. His index finger extended through the slats in the fence and gently touched the puffy fabric of Mycroft’s coat. “And ask if you’d like to do it again. Soon.”

The lunch with Rupert had been a delight. 

Not knowing quite what to expect, Mycroft had dressed carefully in well-cut tartan trousers and a moss green jumper that flattered his ginger colouring. He’d been embarrassed that he’d made such an obvious effort (he told himself it wouldn’t be _so_ obvious to most people), until he arrived at the restaurant. It was posher than he’d expected.

He had wondered if this was supposed to be a date. 

He was very glad he hadn’t given in to the temptation to don his winter kit and ride over. This was not the sort of establishment to which one wore _spandex_. And Mycroft didn’t need to wear the kit to beg off early claiming he needed to train.

Rupert had already arrived and greeted Mycroft with cheek kisses. He smelled divine — a hint of tobacco and tar in his cologne accenting the woody scent of hair product.

Mycroft had smiled to himself — Rupert was dressed casually, almost carelessly, in dark jeans and a slim suit jacket that was pilling at the elbows, but the expensive cologne and carefully tousled hair betrayed his investment in the meeting.

They ordered fizzy water for the table. 

“Are you certain that you don’t want wine?” Mycroft asked. “Or beer? Don’t hold back on my account.”

“Drinking alone is a little pathetic, innit? And you already humoured me once — I won’t ask you to do it again.”

He meant the gin and tonic at the party in Dubendorf. The party where Greg had found him with Rupert and had not reacted well. Even the memory was stressful. 

“I know you don’t drink when you’re training.” Rupert continued. “When I was racing seriously, one shot of liquor would give me lead legs for days. I could get away with a beer now and then — mostly water, innit — but that sent my diet all to hell. I imagine it’s the same for you.” He stopped and blinked at Mycroft’s smirk. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I.”

“You’re very charming.” Mycroft told him.

“It’s a failing. Can’t shut myself up sometimes. Good I make my living jabbering away. God, I’m doing it again.”

“I’ve been told that I speak too little.” Mycroft said wryly. “Mostly monosyllabic and rote platitudes.”

Rupert coloured slightly at hearing his own description quoted back to him. But he shook his finger at Mycroft. “You were the most difficult interview I’ve ever had. Last year at Worlds, after you won the U23 jersey, it was like pulling teeth with my fingers. You didn’t give me anything.”

“It was not my intention to be difficult. Public speaking has never been my forte.” 

“Yeah, I figured you were just shy. It was more honest than the ones that practice in the mirror anyway.”

“Perhaps I should have tried that. It might not have felt so much like you were trying to pull my teeth with your fingers.”

Rupert laughed. “It’s gotten easier for both of us.”

“I’m not sure… on the podcast, I sounded… stiff.”

Leaning in, Rupert touched his hand gently. “It’s normal to be uncomfortable with some wanker rummaging around in your personal life. I know I got too close to some sensitive subjects.”

“No, it was… fine. You were scrupulously respectful of my privacy… more or less.”

“More or less.” Rupert chuckled. “That’s always where I get in trouble.”

The waiter appeared and asked if they were ready to order. Mycroft signalled that Rupert should go first — his order would require some substitutions and instructions. It was better not to lead with it. 

To his surprise, Rupert ordered in Flemish — fluent but almost comically accented Flemish. The waiter’s mouth twitched as he swallowed a laugh. After Mycroft finished giving his elaborate order, Rupert thanked the man in his ridiculous Flemish, then switched to equally terrible French. The waiter left smiling.

“Thank you. That was very kind.” Mycroft told him.

“What? Thanking the waiter?”

“For distracting him from my high-maintenance demands.”

“Wasn’t sure you caught that. I guess there’s very little you don’t catch.”

Mycroft just smiled. “Surely you were exaggerating your accent.”

“No, not at all. Well, maybe the French a little. But Flemish… I’ve never been able to make my mouth work that way. I’m told my Italian is execrable as well.” Rupert admitted. “But as long as I can make myself understood… you don’t approve?”

“My approval is hardly necessary. Or even valuable.”

“I guess that depends on who wants it.” Rupert said making eye contact. The air seemed to warm around them and Mycroft could not look away. He had no idea how to reply.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Rupert asked.

“You can ask.” Mycroft tore his gaze away, picking up his water and sipping. The way Rupert had asked, Mycroft needed the distance.

“You and Lestrade?”

Mycroft knew he’d stiffened. If Sherlock had seen it, he would have known everything. Rupert was nowhere near as perceptive, but Mycroft strongly suspected he’d given the game away. He took another drink of his water and licked his lips. He folded his hands in his lap.

“Is this off the record?”

“Completely.” Rupert said. “I’m not asking as a reporter.”

“How are you asking?”

“As an… interested party.”

Mycroft nodded and took a deep breath. “Briefly.” He said. “During the time he was separated from his partner.”

“He went back to her?” Rupert asked gently. “After you kicked him to the curb?”

Mycroft huffed an almost inaudible scoff. “She’s pregnant.”

“Ah.” It was Rupert’s turn to sip from his water glass as he weighed the possibilities in his mind. “He went back for the baby. I thought… at the party, he was acting like a jealous lover. I figured you’d ended it and he wasn’t taking it well.”

“I don’t believe either of us took it well.”

“I see.” Rupert paused. “Is it over?”

“Yes.” Mycroft told him. “But it’s recent.”

“Still smarts, yeah?”

Mycroft looked away. 

“Hey listen. I’m not pushing for anything. Not that rebound affairs can’t be fun… they really can… but I don’t want to be that bloke.”

Mycroft’s throat was dry. “What _do_ you want?” He forced himself to ask. He’d been wondering ever since their tête-à-tête at the party in Dubendorf.

“I want to get to know you.”

“Why?” No one had ever wanted to know Mycroft better. Except Greg Lestrade… but that had ended up being a disaster.

Rupert smiled sympathetically at his confusion. “Because I like you. You’re smart and funny and amazingly talented. We could be mates, yeah?” Rupert’s foot poked Mycroft’s under the table and the commentator grinned insouciantly. “And who knows… when Lestrade’s ancient history… who knows.”

 _Who knows_? Mycroft took a deep breath and relaxed. He took another. “I’d like to get to know you as well.” He ventured and discovered that it was true.

The rest of the lunch was very pleasant. Rupert entertained him with stories of his travels and deftly drew anecdotes out of Mycroft. Two hours passed without a lull in conversation and Mycroft was surprised to find it was half three.

Across the fence, they made plans to meet again. “You’ll have a little time off after today?” Rupert asked.

“Three weeks.” Mycroft said. “A few days to rest and then I start ramping up for Strade Bianchi.”

“And after that?”

“Paris-Nice.”* Mycroft told him. “My first stage race.”

“Excited?”

“Exceedingly.” Mycroft admitted.

Rupert grinned. “I’m working Paris-Nice. I’ll get to interview you when you win a stage!”

Mycroft scoffed.

Laughing, Rupert dug a wallet out of his pocket. “Care to make a wager? I’ve got twenty quid says you’re on the top step of the podium before the race is over.”

“You may as well simply give me the twenty.” Mycroft said. “The chances of my winning a stage is remote at best.”

“Well, if you aren’t even going to try...”

“I cannot reveal team strategy... but I think you can assume _trying_ is part of it.”

“Yatesie?” Rupert’s tech had stuck her head out of the booth. “We’re on in three, mate!”

“Duty calls.” Rupert said regretfully. “I’ll see you Friday — if not before.” He winked and hurried back to his booth. Mycroft watched for a moment as the commentator put on his headphones and spoke to his sound tech.

\---

Four and a half hours later, Mycroft found himself in the interview chair, once again facing Rupert. 

The commentator had just finished interviewing Greg Lestrade, and Mycroft had eavesdropped. Greg had been hostile the last time he’d spoken to Rupert Yates in Mycroft’s hearing — and the last time he’d spoken _of_ Rupert. He feared that hostility would be noticeable during the interview.

The worry made Mycroft’s stomach twist with acid.

He’d positioned himself where he could listen to their back and forth. He told himself that Greg was a pro, surely, he would not betray his animus on camera. 

“Greg Lestrade, congratulations on a hard-fought win today!” Rupert began with his customary enthusiasm. “It was a stonking race! Tell us how you won.”

Greg chuckled, flashing his gorgeous smile. “My teammates did a lot of the work — Watson and Holmes were brilliant today, ripping the field apart. And this course really suited my strengths, gave me a bit of an edge.”

“It looked to me like the sand was decisive.”

“Yeah. Mycroft made a mistake there. That allowed me to get a little gap.”

“Amstel has been looking unbeatable since Holmes joined you.”

“Vanthourenhout is injured. Without him in the mix…”

“Without him, Amstel is kicking in heads just for fun.”

Greg laughed. It sounded sincere. “If you say so.”

“You certainly are having it all your way.” Rupert paused very slightly. “You’ve retained the World Champion’s jersey for another year, but it was a very close race. It looked like it easily could have gone another way — and that made it absolutely thrilling to watch. Are you afraid that fans will be disappointed now that your greatest rival has teamed up with you?”

“No not at all. It’s only been two races, but you can see we’re still fighting it out on the course. That won’t change.”

“That’s a great relief to those of us who like a lively competition. Speaking of which, you were dominant this past year in your first season on the road, can we expect more stunning performances this year?”

Greg shrugged humbly. “We’ll see. I’m going to do my best.”

“Your best has been very good indeed! Congratulations again, Greg Lestrade. And on another year in rainbow stripes.”

“Cheers.” Greg stood up, smiling politely and let an official herd him towards the Flemish and French speaking commentators.

The interview had been perfectly fine.

Mycroft’s sense of relief made him feel shaky and weak. He hadn’t appreciated how very stressed and anxious he’d been until it had dropped away. He put his head between his knees and breathed deeply.

Perhaps John Watson _had_ performed something like a miracle.

He took another breath, trying to expel the vestiges of the anxiety.

Someone touched his shoulder. Mycroft jumped, sitting up quickly. Rupert was hovering. “Are you OK?” He asked uncertainly.

“Oh. Yes… just stretching my back.” Mycroft told him, popping up from his chair. 

With a relieved smile, Rupert gestured at the interviewee’s hot seat. Mycroft took his place in the spotlight and waited whilst Rupert murmured to the cameraman. Then the commentator stepped forward and spoke into his microphone.

“Brilliant show today, Mycroft! Absolutely brilliant! Amstel was unstoppable! You’ve never been part of a proper team before, how does it feel?”

Rupert swung his microphone forward, where it would catch Mycroft’s answer. 

Abruptly, Mycroft felt completely unprepared for the interview. He cringed at the thought of himself staring blankly out from thousands of television screens. 

He needed to pull himself together! 

Hastily, he examined his feelings about the race — Amstel had swept the podium again. Like the week before, he, Greg and John Watson had stood together on the stage holding flowers and trophies over their heads triumphantly. 

“I find the camaraderie gratifying.” Mycroft managed. 

Thankfully, he felt his intellect rising back to the surface of his consciousness and take control. “And it allows me to employ strategy that was not feasible as a lone racer.

Rupert frowned slightly at Mycroft’s hesitation, but ploughed doggedly on with his next question. “You three certainly work well together… but you and Lestrade have been adversaries all season. I know a lot of fans are afraid that the races won’t be as exciting without that rivalry.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Were you not entertained?”

Rupert laughed and relaxed, tension draining from his expression. “Immensely.” He said. “You won last week, Lestrade won this week… I guess I’m asking, now that you’re teammates, how do you decide who gets the top step?”

“We let our legs decide.” Mycroft told him. “Once we have ensured an Amstel win — and I must thank John Watson for his hard work today on that front — we race each other just as fiercely as we have all season.”

“So, there’s no team leader, then?”

“We share leadership in cyclocross races. On the road, it will depend who — of all our teammates on Amstel — is best suited to the course.”

“So, no gifts — you didn’t step aside and allow him to win today?”

“Good Lord, no.” Mycroft exclaimed. “I can’t imagine anything either of us would like less. It’s not a true victory if it isn’t earned.”

Rupert nodded approvingly. “This was the last ‘cross race of a brilliant season. Will you miss it?”

Mycroft smiled. “The road beckons. I won’t have time to miss ‘cross.”

“I, for one, am very much looking forward to seeing you race on the road. After your breakout cyclocross season, there are big expectations on you. Is that daunting?”

“I don’t think one can do what I do if one is easily daunted.”

“Too right! Thank you for talking to us today, Mycroft Holmes. Congratulations on brilliant race!”

“Thank you.”

The cameraman let his lens drop and Mycroft stood up. “Are you sure you’re OK?” Rupert asked.

“Of course.” Mycroft assured him.

“Just… you seemed a little off, Did I… it wasn’t too much?” Rupert asked.

“Not at all.” Mycroft assured him. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I’m not spun sugar, Rupert. I don’t expect kid gloves.”

Rupert touched his arm. “As long as you’re good.”

The hand was solid and warm where it held him. “I am. Truly.” He assured his friend.

A coterie of officials descended and Mycroft was ushered away.

—-

Mycroft went through the motions on the podium, smiling and accepting his prizes. He exchanged congratulatory handshakes with Greg and Watson and then posed for the pictures, crowding onto the top step with his teammates and extending his arms in victory. Afterwards he handed his prizes off to Anthea and followed his chaperone to doping control.

It occurred to him that being a UCI chaperone wasn’t the nicest job — after a race the man trailed around behind one of the top three, watching him to be certain the racer didn’t try to do anything to dilute or obscure the possible presence of performance-enhancing drugs in his bloodstream. Then, when the racer finally got to doping control, the man watched his assigned rider wee in a cup — he had to watch to certify that the urine had come directly from the cyclist’s body — and watched as the racer had his blood drawn by the official Blood Control Officer. The rider himself sealed all the samples in tamper-proof bags.

Greg and John Watson were in the doping control trailer when Mycroft arrived, Greg behind the curtain with his chaperone as he produced his urine sample, Watson at a table on the far wall, trying to chat up the Blood Control Officer as she jabbed him. Mycroft took the samples kit and sat down to fill out the paperwork whilst he waited for the others to finish. 

Watson was deft with the samples, having them all bagged, taped and ready before the Doping Control Officer could unlock the refrigerator in which the samples were stored. 

When the station was sterilised, Greg sat down to have his blood drawn, frowning at the needle. Mycroft knew how much he loathed being stuck — Greg had admitted as much one night as they had lain in bed together, the vaulted ceiling of the old barn above them. Greg’s calloused fingertips had stroked Mycroft’s arm, finding the braille inside his elbow from the last few blood draws...

It felt like a lifetime ago… had it only been eight weeks?

After Mycroft completed gathering and packaging his samples, filling out the paperwork and placing it all inside the fridge, he left the trailer… with a feeling of melancholia.

The last race of the season. 

The ending of this chapter of his life.

The ending.

In past years, the end of cyclocross meant a family holiday, a week off the bike and a temporary loosening of his dietary restrictions. Lazing on a beach in Greece with a stack of books had softened the inevitable let-down. 

Would Sherlock be doing that this year? Alone with Mummy and Father? The very idea lay a millstone of guilt around Mycroft’s neck. He _had_ abandoned his brother…

This year had brought multiple endings. None had been easy. Mycroft would be living with the ramifications — with the consequences — for a very long time. Perhaps forever.

And so would Sherlock. Change had not just happened to Mycroft — it had come to his entire family… to all of his relationships…

“My… hey…”

Greg. He trotted to catch up with Mycroft, shaking water from his freshly washed hands.

“Good race today.” He said.

“Yes.” Mycroft _had_ made a fatal mistake in the sand pit and it had cost him the race. Mummy’s chastising voice had been stuck in his head ever since.

“Listen… I owe you an apology. The way I’ve been acting the past month… I’ve been a twat.”

“It is a difficult situation.” Mycroft allowed carefully.

“Yeah, but that’s the thing… it’s my fault. All of it. I never should have put it on you.” Greg wiped his palms on the thighs of his warm-up trousers, then ran his fingers through his hair. It had grown out some since he’d shaved it, but it was far from the floppy mess Mycroft had loved. 

If he wasn’t mistaken, it looked as if a bit of grey was growing amongst the dark.

“There’s no point to assigning blame.” Mycroft murmured.

“Yeah, OK. I just… we’re going to be traveling together and racing together all year… I hope things can be different.”

Mycroft considered. He poked gently at the wound deep inside him — it was painful, even through the layers of ice and snow he’d piled upon it. “I’m not ready to be friends.”

“No. Don’t think I am either. But maybe… friendly?”

“Friendly…” Mycroft echoed, turning it around in his mind, attempting to grasp it.

“I care about you, My.” Greg continued. “I… I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy.”

Mycroft had not the faintest idea how to reply. Happiness… it had been a faceted jewel shining so very brightly when he and Greg had been together. It had illuminated his entire life, all the dim corners and dusty closets lit with joy. 

Since, the jewel — if it even still existed — was dark as pitch. Rekindling the light seemed… impossible.

“I won’t get in the way. If you’d be happy with…” Greg gulped. “With someone else.”

“Someone else?” He meant Rupert Yates. “I appreciate the sentiment.” Mycroft managed. “But it seems misplaced…” Or at least radically premature.

“I’m just saying… God, I don’t know what I’m saying.” Greg floundered. 

They walked together, side by side, with mistrust and confusion between them. Greg had tried, but it was too much! How could the wall ever be torn down?

Mycroft had vowed to _try_.

Greg was trying… Mycroft should try to meet him halfway.

Oh! But it was hard! How could he rise from the defensive crouch that protected the torn and damaged parts within him?! It went against every instinct Mycroft had!

But he had vowed to try. _For the team_

Licking his lips, Mycroft chose the words carefully. “If I’m not misunderstanding, I believe you want us to be able to work together harmoniously, without the hurt and rancour that has characterised our interactions since New Year’s Day.”

“Yeah. At least, I want to try.”

Mycroft nodded. “We can both try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd intended to end this story with the end of the cyclocross season, wrapping everything up nicely. However, the characters have minds of their own and are nowhere near ready to be wrapped up. Thus, I have decided to break this fic into a series. This is the end of "Stars 'Cross," but we pick up where we left off in "The Road," which tells of Mycroft Holmes' first road racing season.
> 
> Will he and Greg be able to overhaul their relationship? Transform it into something collegial? How well will Mycroft get to know Rupert Yates? How successful will he be racing a new discipline — one with radically longer races? And don't forget, on the road he'll be racing against Sphere led by Jim Moriarty!
> 
> I'm posting the first chapter simultaneously with this one, so click on through and get the first taste.
> 
> As always, thank you for your comments! They make my day!
> 
> ****  
> *Paris-Nice - a professional cycling stage race in France, held annually since 1933. Raced over eight days, the race usually starts with a prologue in the Paris region and ends with a final stage either in Nice or on the Col d'Èze overlooking the city.[1] The event is nicknamed The Race to the Sun, as it runs in the first half of March, typically starting in cold and wintry conditions in the French capital before reaching the spring sunshine on the Côte d’Azur.[2] The hilly course in the last days of the race favours stage racers who often battle for victory.

**Author's Note:**

> Fan fic in the time of COVID-19.
> 
> Hello my friends! While I have not posted in a while, I have not been idle — I wanted to get a significant portion of this new fic written before I began posting.
> 
> I hope you are all healthy and not too bored staying at home for the next few weeks. Or months, who knows! Perhaps you'll even enjoy reading about cyclocross — I know A LOT about bike racing. I did it myself for many years and now I follow the pro races (so many cancelled right now!!). I have tried the patience of many friends over the years, explaining the ins and outs of bike racing. Cyclocross is one of the most entertaining forms of the sport — at least I'm not describing 250K of flat road.
> 
> If you have any questions or comments, I'm happy to explain IN DEPTH. Heh. And as always, I appreciate feedback.
> 
> Take care, everyone! Let's flatten the curve together — stay home and read!


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